Tsunami
by Jet44
Summary: When Peter was jailed for murder, he changed. Neal prods Peter about his experiences in jail and shares a trauma of his own, but Peter won't stop lashing out at him. When it can't get any worse, the two are caught in a Tsunami in the middle of the night, Neal drowns, Peter rescues and resuscitates him, and from there on out it's all about survival, reconciliation, and healing. Gen.
1. Turnabout is Not Fair Play

The first chapter is from the one-shot Turnabout is Not Fair Play, which I decided to extend so it could have a happy ending.

**Content:**

No slash, just deep friendship. but a lot more intimacy than your average bromance. Just like White Collar itself. Standard canon pairings apply.

This is somewhat dark, when it comes to the initial relationship between Peter and Neal. My aim is to slip it in between canon to explain why Peter changed and acted so cruelly in season 5, and how they wound up so close to back to normal by the pilot episode. Some personal closure, if you will.

I'm not going the stereotypical "beaten and raped in prison" route. What happened to Peter and Neal was much more frighteningly close to legal treatment and not a lot of fun to read about. This isn't a terribly violent story; they almost get killed, repeatedly, but this time it's not the work of violent criminals. If you're willing to go along for the ride, I promise a happy ending.

I live for comments and reviews :)

* * *

**PETER**

Peter's head spun, his vision blurring around the edges. He stopped breathing. And everything hit him at once. Horror, shock, pain, fear, guilt, helplessness.

Frantic desire to defend himself, coupled with the inability to form basic words.

His arms were shaking. He couldn't even feel the handcuffs, or his feet, or remember what day it was.

More than anything, he wanted to cry. He kept waiting for it to end, but first the walk through the lobby, past his team and strangers, then the ride to the office, sitting in the interrogation room facing a dirty agent all seemed to stretch on for hours.

And when the cell door closed and no miracles had come for him, when he was finally alone, he did cry. He told himself all the ways it could work out just fine, and tried to silence the horror of all the ways it might not.

He wished desperately for El and Satchmo and his living room and his life. His FBI, Jones and Diana and Hughes and bad coffee.

And Neal.

_Oh, God._ All the times I've done this to Neal. I knew it hurt. I didn't know it could be this bad. That is one tough, loyal, forgiving son of a bitch.

* * *

**NEAL**

His breath caught when he saw Peter in an orange jumpsuit, looking - more than devastated, more than terrified, more than hurt. He'd seen Peter on a stretcher with his heart stopped. Peter with his wife in the hands of a ruthless kidnapper. But never Peter broken. Never trying and failing to look brave and calm.

The sight broke_ him_.

This time there were no jokes about irony, just his best friend sitting raw and wounded.

Neal sat down and tried to meet Peter's eyes, but he wouldn't look up. "Peter."

It took a good minute for him to respond. "Neal."

"We'll get you out of here, you know that, right?" Neal didn't know what to say, not to Peter. Not to this.

"I'd put myself in your shoes instead if I could. Peter, tell me what I can do, what I can say, anything."

Neal felt desperate. He was used to having a plan, or at the very least someone to turn to. He hadn't really absorbed until just now how often that plan involved Peter, or the fact that most of the time, he was that someone to turn to.

"How did you handle it?" Peter asked finally. "I - am - trying everything I can to be brave, and strong, and have hope that this will go my way. And every minute feels like someone is beating me in the heart with an baseball bat. How. How did you handle this?"

Neal leaned forward on the table, as close as he could get, and held his cuffed hands. "It's different, being guilty. When you arrested me on that diamond heist, that was a whole new level of pain. If I were in your shoes right now, I'd be crying myself to sleep every single night."

Peter gulped and closed his eyes. "I do."

"Peter." Neal was remembering the gentle, compassionate, utterly reassuring FBI agent who had eased some of the worst pains in his life. "My turn. How did you manage to help me so much? How did you know what to say and what to do all those times it was me in here?"

He was starting to understand the emotions behind that wrenched expression Peter gave him so often. To be worried about someone you felt such deep empathy for, and to be helpless to pull them out or charge in with the cavalry or even stand by their side...

"I - I really didn't know. I cared about you. I knew I couldn't change the circumstances, so I just - tried to show you I cared and that your world wasn't gone."  
Peter's voice sounded so lost and faint at the last part that Neal wanted to hug him.

"Okay. Listen to me. I know - what this brand of fear feels like, and there is no way out from under it. There is something about losing control of your future, not even being able to see the future, that's - if some thug kidnaps you and holds you at gunpoint, the world is at your back. You may not know what's going to happen or if you'll survive, but you know he's the bad guy and you're the good guy."

Neal looked at the ugly tiled walls, the bars, the guard standing outside. Thought about all the hate his fellow inmates had felt for the "screws" running the place, for police and FBI and everyone in a suit or a uniform.

And about the affection he had for those very same people. With the exception of the corrupt and cruel ones, the criminals who had figured out it was easier to get away with if you wore a uniform, they had ten times the heart of Brutus the meth-addicted chop-shop owner.

And finally, about the pain of having them look at him like he was dangerous, untrustworthy, and something less than completely human. It had to hurt Peter exponentially more.

He gripped Peter's hands tighter. They were cold, and felt weak. "When you're arrested, the world is against you. You don't know what's going to happen to your future, but you know nobody cares and you just have to take it, because you're not the good guy any longer."

"That's - exactly it," said Peter, giving him a deeply grateful look. "I've been captured with armed men ready to kill or torture me, and - I'm ten times as frightened by being in a clean cell with humane treatment and lawyers and - I can't fight them, because I won't. I don't know how to do this."

"Listen. El, Mozzie, your FBI crew - me - all those smart, creative, caring minds that have solved so many cases are working for you now. You just remember the passion and effectiveness and magic of everything we can accomplish together, and know that you mean the world to all of us," said Neal.

Peter's eyes were filled with tears, his hands shaking. "Thanks." His voice broke twice just trying to say one word.

"You're loved. You're missed. There's a Peter Burke-sized hole in your world out there, and we aren't going to stop until you're back in it."

"I miss all of you, so much," Peter whispered. He still looked unbearably devastated. A metal door slammed, and he flinched.

Neal wondered if he should tell the truth, and finally decided in favor of it. "You know what kept me going sometimes?"

"What?"

"I'd think about my worst fears. That I would be here for life. That I'd die here. That I'd be shipped to some mythical hellhole where I'd live in solitary confinement, beaten and raped every day. That everyone would forget me or hate me. That I'd never experience joy again."

"Pretty much been doing that," said Peter dryly. "Shockingly, it's not wonderful for my spirits."

"Then I'd decide how I would handle it. Sometimes it involved suicide. Sometimes I realized I would be okay. But I had a plan for each of my fears. So far, I haven't had to use one of them. But it helps, not shying away. And then whenever I was having a really horrible time, I'd think forward to a year, five years, whatever distance I needed, and look at how small and forgettable it was going to seem in the future."

"And Peter - try not to grieve for what you've lost until you've really lost it." Neal hesitated. "If this were an undercover assignment. Getting thrown in here as a prisoner for a while. You knew it wasn't real. Would you find it particularly hard to cope?"

A flash of spirit entered Peter's eyes. "No. Not at all."

"Con yourself, Peter."

* * *

**FIVE WEEKS LATER**

Neal stepped out onto the balcony and let the harsh, frozen wind tear at him. It stung his eyes and let him pretend the water in them was just the weather.

There'd been so much joy in his life, so many exhilarating experiences, so many challenges of the good kind.

But those were hard to see when there was this much pain with it. He'd handled everything that was thrown at him as a child and a teenager. He'd handled prison. He'd handled losing Kate. He'd handled getting to know his father and finding out the man was a worse human being than his nightmares had dared suggest. And all the smaller things in between.

He'd handled all the pain and worry and stress and humiliation of being Peter's ankleted CI, because those had been some of the best times in his life.

What he couldn't handle was having the one person he'd ever truly trusted, the one safe person, change.

Neal bit his lip, put his head down, gripped the edge of the stone railing, and cried.

He knew crime and criminals. He knew traps when he saw them, and had always been smart enough to steal the cheese without springing them. With Hagen, he'd walked right in, stepped on the trigger, and let it fall. He'd known he would be paying for it and he didn't care.

He'd known Hagen could bring it all down. Had known that if he did this, and Peter suspected, it could end everything. But he couldn't bear to see Peter suffering so deeply, and it had seemed like a worthy sacrifice at the time. He'd meant every word when he said he'd put himself in Peter's shoes if he could.

Because Peter was the other cardinal rule of criminal survival he'd broken. You never let anyone get close enough, or let yourself care enough, that there was anyone or anything you couldn't throw away.

If you put your trust and faith and heart in someone, they would use you, abandon you, and break your heart. They always wanted something, and would always walk away when they were done with you. You didn't let someone in close enough to genuinely hurt you. Ever.

He'd not only let Peter in, he'd placed his trust and love and loyalty in him. He'd let Peter hurt him, control him, shape him. Because he adored the man and what he was doing. And he'd been conscious the entire time.

For no reason other than simple affection and decency, Peter had been trying and succeeding to save Neal. To pry him away from the criminal world and show him a life that had all the challenge and thrill and exhilaration, but added security and trust and love and moral authority to the mix.

Peter was the only man he'd ever met who never acted out of malice or selfishness or revenge. He was honest to the core. He never preyed on the weak or hurt people when they were down. He was never cold, never turned his back on people who needed him.

He cared. He simply and plainly cared.

And Peter had turned into a smug, hard, phony, career-climbing suit. The joy of life had gone out of his eyes, his affection for people and compassion replaced by a fake smile and a hard voice. A life and death bond of friendship had been deliberately and brutally severed.

Maybe it had been the pain and betrayal of false accusation by the criminal justice system that underpinned his life. Maybe it had been what he'd encountered in jail; what had been relatively easy for Neal the con artist could have been a nightmare for Peter the FBI agent.

But the bottom line was that Peter was smart and he was tough, far tougher than Neal. And if Neal had been able to get through years in prison not only with his spirit intact but the ability to forgive and adore the man who put him there, Peter could handle spending a few weeks in jail without being warped beyond recognition.

He'd always affectionately slapped Neal in the face with the anklet, and in doing so gracefully diverted the uncomfortable truths that Neal was somewhere between his pet and his slave. He'd managed to make it funny, fun, and somehow, impossibly, cool and dignified.

This time, he'd slapped Neal in the face for real, discarding him and handing him over to be controlled by someone they'd never met. Like a master selling a slave. That was possibly the most painfully humiliating thing Peter could do, and he had a hard time trying to convince himself that Peter was dumb enough to be unaware of the dynamic.

He'd even used the anklet to do it, in a way. New anklet, new "handler," new Peter. Goodbye.

This was sick, and it hurt. This was not the Peter Burke he adored and trusted. That man was gone, that friendship and trust was gone, and he was left sobbing on a balcony.

Because he was a criminal, and he'd broken the rules of being a criminal. So much for redemption.


	2. One Last Effort

"Peter's - changed."

Neal gave a low laugh. "Yes."

El sat down at the table and rested her chin in her palm. "He doesn't smile any more, not really. Neither do you. The two of you both used to be able to light up a room just by grinning."

"That's history." Neal put his head down on the table, cradled in his arms, trying to hide how much those words hurt. "When he got out of prison, he - was done with me. We're done."

"He - told me what he found out, about how you kept him out of prison. It scares me how angry he is."

Neal was silent.

"Neal?"

"Hey, you're talking to the guy who walked out of his office trying not to cry earlier. He - used to get mad, in a cute, caring way. Now there's just true anger and contempt."

El took a sip of her wine, a nice - white - something. Neal couldn't even remember what they'd opened, just that it was time to open another. It took a whole bottle to get them talking, for El to wipe the mascara off the tear-streaked cheeks she'd shown up with.

She drew a deep breath. "He yelled at me. _Yelled._ I know he feels responsible for Agent Siegel's death, but..." She sat the glass down. "Out of curiosity, did you like Siegel?"

"I - generally like people. If they aren't evil or cruel. On that basis, yes, I liked him. He was interesting. I was starting to enjoy his company. Seeing him lying there dead was heart-wrenching, and I would have protected him if I'd gotten the chance. But we weren't friends."

"Really? Peter respected him. He's concerned about who becomes your handler, that it be someone you can get along with and who will be able to keep you out of prison."

Neal snorted. "Nice of him to try to find a good home for the dog he got tired of taking care of. Satchmo can sleep easy at night, knowing that when you and Peter give him away to move to DC, Peter'll make sure his new owner doesn't beat him."

"Neal!" El looked horrified.

"I tried for our deal because I liked him. Not because I was desperate to get out. I've lost track of the number of times Peter's arrested me, cuffed me, or threatened to send me back. Ask Peter to name a time I did anything but walk up to him and hold my wrists out. Going to prison isn't what I've been afraid of, ever. It's been losing his friendship, and yours, and this life."

Her face crinkled in love, and compassion. "Aww. Neal, sweetie."

Neal got up and walked over to the wine rack. Grabbed another bottle without even looking at the label, opened it, and poured. "He ended our friendship. He ended our partnership. He's changed, and he's leaving. There is nothing worse or more cruel he could have done to me, and he knows it. He's pretending he doesn't, but he knows he betrayed someone who -"

Neal stopped and blinked away the tears trying to enter his eyes. "I sincerely and completely trusted and adored Peter. I make friends easily, but I have never put every ounce of my faith into someone before and I'm certainly not going to be doing it again."

"You can't just give up on him," said El.

"_You_ can't," said Neal. "You're his wife. But he gave up on me, and kicked me to the curb. He doesn't want my friendship any more."

"Look - I know pride is a powerful thing -"

"Pride?" Neal tried not to let his jaw drop. "Peter's literally put me in chains, held me while I cried my eyes out - pride? I embody a lot of things, but stubborn pride is not one of them. If one of us has a pride problem, it's Peter."

She looked him in the eyes, so worried there were already tears forming in her own, but she didn't waver. Her voice was steady and calm. "No lies, no trying to spare my feelings. Do you think something happened to my husband in jail?"

"You asking if he was - assaulted?"

"Sexually or otherwise," she said, keeping her eyes locked with his.

"It's very, very unlikely," said Neal. "He might have been hit or thrown against a wall a time or two, but that's about it."

"That wasn't a no."

Neal sighed. "If Peter asked me if you were raped at your event last night, I'd give him the same answer. You asked me not to spare your feelings, so I'm not going to tell you it's impossible. But I don't think that's what's changed him, and I don't think it happened."

She shivered. "What do you think did?"

"I've spent a lot of time wondering, believe me. My guess is - he's never thought the criminal justice system was perfect. But he believed in it, and tuned out certain realities."

"Like?"

"Like when most people have someone they love blown up in front of their eyes, they are comforted and supported and promised justice. I got chained up hand and foot as a high-risk felon and taken to prison for no just or valid reason. The Marshals van was there to haul me away before the _FAA_ even showed up."

"Peter was so upset by that, Neal-"

Neal held up his hand. "I know. I've only seen him that angry twice, and the other time was when you were kidnapped. And he was wonderful. It's possible the way he supported me through that kept me from killing myself. He was furious and he cared and he was Peter."

"Okay..." El looked puzzled.

"I think he was able to see the twisted logic behind things like that, and forgive them as flaws in a complex machine. So am I. But now he's been through it himself, it's different. Maybe injustice is real now, and he can't face it."

"Maybe," said El. "But - the Peter I know would become even more empathetic as a result of going through it himself. One of his worst fears is convicting an innocent person."

"Not if his whole identity was shaken while he was suffering," said Neal. "He was disturbed by crooked cops and corrupt senators and his own FBI being vulnerable to them. Add arrest for one of the worst crimes a person can commit..."

Neal looked at her sideways. How deep to go? She was hurt. He was hurt. He didn't imagine there would be any magical outcome, any way to change Peter back. But they could explore.

"Did Peter ever tell you if he was held in protective segregation, or general population?"

She frowned. "He didn't really talk about it much, but he did say something about segregation when I asked him if it was dangerous, being an FBI agent in there. I think they had him under protection or something."

Neal winced. "For six weeks?"

"As far as I know, why?"

"Segregation is a euphemism for solitary confinement. It's used for two reasons. One is a punishment even hardened criminals fear, the other is to protect someone from other inmates."

"Have you ever been in solitary?" asked El.

Neal nodded. "Depending on how you're treated, it's anything from stressful and boring and lonely to complete hell. My secret fear for Peter when he was in there was that first, he was in segregation, and second, that he might have someone tied up in this whole corruption scandal who arranged for him to be treated badly in there."

There were tears threatening her own eyes now. "Tell me what that entails."

"Basically? Being kept in a closed cell with no human contact twenty-three hours a day. That's your world, your whole world. A concrete box with a metal door. The hour out of the cell means being shackled and put in a pen outside. It's worse than it sounds. _Mob enforcers_ are afraid of solitary. Whether he was treated decently, whether he had books and TV and blankets in the cell, whether those few contacts were reassuring or cruel? Makes all the difference."

El's expression was endearingly caring and horrified. She wasn't connecting this to Peter right now, she was thinking about Neal. "You've been through this?"

Neal nodded. "Mainly a few days here and there for minor offenses. It wasn't fun, but it was bearable. But after I escaped to find Kate, I spent three weeks in pretty awful conditions as a punishment. It - was one of the hardest things I've ever been through."

El stood up, walked around to his side, leaned down, and hugged him. Closely and sincerely and with no reservations. She kissed him on the cheek and then pressed her cheek against his, her eyes closed. There was fierce love and compassion in her grip, and Neal could feel himself melt.

Solitary was about cruelty and isolation. He'd told a few people about it, but she was the first who had responded unhesitatingly with the direct antidote. Caring and immediate, physical companionship. He closed his eyes and leaned into her.

They stayed like that for what felt like a long time, and Neal couldn't bring himself to pull away or even move a muscle. It was too blissful, and too needed, a feeling.

Finally she whispered, "Neal, sweetie. I'm so sorry my husband has turned into one more pain you've had to go through in life. I wish I'd known you then and at least been there to hold you and cry with you when you got out."

He pulled away enough to meet her eyes. "I'm not an innocent victim. I did escape, and I've been so fortunate to be sharing my life with you and your husband these last few years instead of behind bars. I'm hurt, but I'm not bitter."

She let go of him, but pulled her chair around and sat right at his side, her hand on his upper arm, staying close. "And you're afraid this may have happened to Peter?"

"It shouldn't have," said Neal. "If he was in segregation as an innocent until proven FBI agent, he should have been treated with as much care and compassion as anyone gets in jail, which is more than you might expect."

"But you're concerned."

"I was," admitted Neal. "He was too shattered, every time I saw him. I know the stress he was under, but I know how tough he is, too. His hands were cold, he was shaking, he could hardly talk sometimes. I worry about what influence a corrupt and powerful enemy might have had over the conditions he was in."

"And you think it would have been enough to harden him like this?"

"Solitary confinement can be classified as torture, and it can cause personality changes. Inflicted by a system he works in and trusts? I don't know if that's what happened, but it's the best theory I've been able to come up with."

"So - Peter may have been put through something so traumatic it could change his entire personality and view on life and people. Can you find it in your heart to let there be that chance, and see that he might need your loyalty and patience and even your experience more than he ever has?"

Neal looked down, stomach and throat tight, his head buzzing. "I - trusted him because he was - who he was. I'll always be friendly towards him, but the trust is gone, El. I can't risk this kind of pain again. All the other kinds, I can, but not this."

"Neal, please. I won't ask you to trust him, but please be your loyal self for a little longer. Try to help him."


	3. Lashing Out

"I'm just asking what the conditions were like. From one former inmate to another."

The day couldn't get much worse. Two potential leads on Agent Siegel's murder had come to nothing, they were stuck in traffic, and Peter was in a nasty mood. It was an insensitive time to ask him about a traumatic event, but it meant he'd get a response. Probably not a pleasant one, but something.

Peter gave him a disgusted look. "Not you too. Sorry to inform you, I wasn't raped or beaten in custody. Nice of you to want to hear all the grisly details, though."

Neal shut up and looked away. "Didn't think you had been."

A long time passed. Peter finally broke the silence. "I know your games, Neal. You want me to extrapolate what I experienced, so that I'll feel sorry for you and play the poor sweet victimized felon game. No. We're done with that."

Neal didn't answer.

"Oh. No. Now I get it. You're trying to remind me of what you 'saved' me from, so that I'll forgive you. I do, you know that? I forgive you for being you. I don't forgive myself for thinking you could ever change or become something better if only I just put a little more of my heart and soul and reputation on the line."

When Neal didn't answer, Peter pulled the car over and produced his handcuffs. "Hands."

Neal rolled his eyes and held his wrists out. They were beyond even pretending there was a legal reason for it at this point.

"Behind your back," Peter snapped.

"Really, Peter?" He rolled his eyes. Peter said nothing, so Neal twisted sideways in the seat so that he could put his hands behind his back within Peter's reach.

Peter cuffed him. "Pick those and I'll hog-tie you."

Neal still remained silent. Neither man spoke until they pulled up outside a NYPD precinct. Peter marched him up to the desk, turned him around, and gave him a glare to end all glares. "I'm done with you. Deal's over."

Peter spoke to the officer behind the glass. "This is Neal Caffrey. He's on a conditional work release from Sing Sing, and he's completed his assignment. Hold him and have the US Marshals pick him up."

Neal went silently with the two officers who grabbed him to lead him back to booking. At least it didn't hurt, this time. Being led away from Peter in custody always had. But the man had lost that emotional hold over him.

A furious voice sounded from six feet behind him. "Aren't you going to say _anything_?"

"No."

"What was the point of that little charade in my car?"

Neal shrugged. "I'm just a criminal, what does it matter to you? I was probably trying to distract you so I could steal your wallet."

Peter stared at him, turned away, turned back. "You really don't care."

"Well, I plainly can't con you or manipulate your affections any more, so what would be the point? Seeya."

Peter kept staring, his cheeks flushing red, his jaw clenched so hard Neal was tempted to make a remark of concern for his dental bill.

"How the hell did you make it through almost four years in prison without someone hauling you into solitary and pounding that smug attitude of yours into dust?"

"I didn't," said Neal softly.

Peter swallowed hard and looked away. Something in him seemed to crumble, and he could only look at the floor, not Neal. But when the two officers started to lead Neal away, he stopped them. "Never mind. I just remembered I need him for something. Come on."

They walked back out to the car and Peter opened the passenger door. "You can take the cuffs off now." His voice was cold, but weak.

"No," said Neal.

"_No_? What do you mean, no."

"That's something I do around people I feel safe with. I don't feel like risking an escape or resisting arrest charge."

"You are damn lucky I don't believe in abusing prisoners." Peter's voice was low, a furious rumble of resentment, but he removed the handcuffs gently.

"Well, you could just bribe someone to do it for you," said Neal. "Amazing how abusive some perfectly legal procedures can be in the right hands."

Peter's sharp intake of breath was immediately followed by a gentle, almost apologetic touch on his back. "Get in the car."

They drove, and drove, and drove. By the time they were somewhere in the wilds of New Jersey, and the light was falling, Neal stopped trying to track their location. He passed up a number of priceless comments about kidnapping and flight across state lines in favor of silence.

Peter nosed the car into Island Beach State Park just after dark, wandering and driving until they pulled up in front of the abandoned beach. Neal followed him out across the sand in the dark, shivering against the wind and listening to the wash of the surf.

Peter was shivering too, but they kept walking along the shoreline into the dark until they were both stumbling in sand-filled shoes. They almost walked face-first into a giant, gnarled drift log, its roots a dark tangle reaching above their heads.

They half sat, half fell against the leeward side, out of the wind. Hugging their knees for warmth, looking out at the dark mass of water and tiny lights along the shore as a few stars started to become visible in the sky overhead.


	4. Scars

The night was cold, the beach inhospitable, the salt air smelling more like fish cannery and dead algae than holiday breezes. Neal hugged himself for warmth, wondering why they were out here. Peter had never seemed like the communing with nature type.

"Bribery, huh?" said Peter finally.

"Maybe," said Neal. Well, at least the agent was talking again. That was worth shoes filled with sand, maybe.

"I trusted them," said Peter. "When I went in. I was told protective segregation would be unpleasant and stressful, but that they could keep me safe and I would be well cared for. I signed off on it. I knew what it was."

"And then?"

"Paperwork error. I got sent to the disciplinary unit."

Neal shivered from the cold, and in empathy. "Legal prisoner abuse." He couldn't see the disgusted look Peter shot him in the dark, but he could feel it. The downside of knowing a person this well.

"It's not easy, managing violent criminals," snapped Peter. "I'd like to see anyone handed a couple thousand murderers and thugs and addicts, and manage to keep them all safe from each other, well cared for, and under control without getting any of their employees hurt. You'd want to beat the shit out of some of those guys pretty fast. I can accept that it won't always be pretty, even if I'm the suspect. I can accept that mistakes get made, too."

Neal leaned back against the log. "You were there six weeks?"

"Yeah." He sounded shaken.

"I only got three weeks for breaking out of the facility and impersonating a CO. Short of seriously injuring someone, or fighting a CO, that's about as big an offense as there is."

Peter was silent again, for a long time. They were both cold, and Neal decided to take a big risk. He slid closer to his former best friend and wrapped his arm around Peter's back, and held his shoulder tight.

It wasn't a friendly feeling, like it had been so many times before. Peter was stiff and felt like he was just this side of punching Neal in the head.

Why he was still even trying? What was he doing on a beach developing hypothermia with someone who despised him?

For El. He and Peter were over, she and Peter still had a chance.

"What were the conditions there?" asked Neal finally.

Peter took a long time to answer. "I - was in a seven by nine concrete cell, with a steel door. There was a TV, but it was always off. There was a bible and a toilet. There was a concrete bed with a mat, like a dog bed in a kennel. No blankets or pillows, and I was in nothing but boxers. That was it. Nobody talked to me. They stuck food in twice a day, sometimes three."

"What about coming out of the cell?"

Peter shivered and remained silent, but despite himself he shrank against Neal for shelter from the memories.

Neal shivered too, looking down at his ankles in the dark. He knew where un-crossable lines were in Peter's heart when it came to mistreating people. They hadn't shifted, he'd shown that even today.

This would hurt. He'd never wanted to make Peter see this, never wanted to remember himself. People got tattoos of things that were important to them, or to mark good memories. He was permanently marked by one of the most painful experiences of his life.

He fished out his key chain and turned on the small LED flashlight he had attached to it. Tugged up the anklet as far as it would go. Aimed the light at the white and pink scars that cut horizontally across his ankle, over the Achilles tendon.

"This is what happens when you put leg irons on someone too tight for them to stand, and use a stun gun to force them to walk to and from the exercise pen."

Peter's face was frozen, his eyes wide and fixed. "Neal?" He reached out and touched the scars, looking pale.

"It happened when I was in solitary after escaping."

Peter's face went cold. "Here's an idea, don't escape. If you can't obey the simple rules of society, you go to prison. If you can't even obey ones as simple as 'don't break out of here' then maybe you do need a lesson in how you don't rule the world."

Neal stopped breathing. There was a low buzzing sound in his head, and he stood up and ran. Stumbling, tripping, falling, staggering back to his feet. He just ran, until his lungs hurt and he couldn't see the log or Peter or anything, and then he stayed down the next time he fell, face pressed against the sand, lungs heaving.

He lost track of time. When Peter found him, his footsteps heavy in the sand, the glow of his phone bright in the darkness as he used the tracker app to find Neal, Neal wanted to throw up. He was so done crying in front of this guy, so throwing up it was. He retched, but nothing came.

"Neal, I'm so sorry." Peter sat down in the sand and, taking hold of his ankle, gently pushed the anklet up.

Neal kicked him. Hard.

There was a grunt and a hiss of pain, but no answer or retaliation. He'd thought it would feel good. It did, for a few seconds. Then just guilt.

He was lying face down in the sand, at night, in the middle of nowhere, completely vulnerable to an angry and unbalanced FBI agent. He almost hoped to feel the barrel of a gun press against the base of his skull, to hear an explosive crack and have the world go blank.

"What's the subject of your presentation at the next FBI convention?" asked Neal. "Why Rape Victims Totally Deserve It, by Peter Burke?"

He heard a sharp intake of breath. "Please tell me you weren't raped," said Peter.

"I wasn't," said Neal. There was something different in the atmosphere, and he tensed. What was that sound? Something building. Roaring? Running? A washing machine?

Then a ton of cold, churning water crashed down on his back, and in an instant he was choking salt water out of his lungs, flailing madly amid a sensation of wild movement and cold, and then he was under water once more.


	5. Run for Your Life

Peter saw the massive wave coming just seconds before it struck them. He grabbed at Neal, barely managing to grab his ankle before it hit, but the force of the water ripped them apart instantly. The next minute was nothing but an animal struggle for survival, filled with the taste of salt water, burning lungs starved of oxygen, choking, fighting for the surface, gulping in air, and being tossed under again.

Some time later, he managed to get a handle on the timing of the waves and how to keep his head above water enough of the time to breathe, barely.

_Neal._

"NEAL!" he shouted, over and over, every time he could spare the air. He didn't know how far he was from the shore or even what direction it was. He couldn't see in the dark, and every time he tried, water would flood his eyes.

He was finding it harder and harder to surface each time he was sucked under, and he remembered hearing about waterlogged clothing and shoes weighing down drowning victims. He managed to shed them in between bouts of fighting for his life, leaving only his boxers, and found it immeasurably easier to tread water and surface.

"NEAL!"

Where was Neal? Where was the shore?

He was underwater when something soft yet solid collided with his head, and he grabbed it and held on with all his strength. He kicked for the surface, and kept kicking, and was in a near panic, starved of oxygen, when he finally got his head above the waves.

He tugged and pulled to no avail, the water and waves robbing him of any leverage. His fingers were too numb to even be able to feel what he was holding. It could be a log, or a dead fish, for all he knew. He was dashed underwater again, and held on. He didn't know, but he _knew_. It was Neal.

Peter surfaced, and this time he didn't have to tug, because it rose effortlessly out of the water. It was a foot. He was holding Neal's tracking anklet, his fingers hooked under the rubberized plastic surface and locked on for dear life.

Which meant that Neal was underwater, his head down by Peter's feet. There was no struggle. Unconscious. Or worse. If he didn't reach the shore almost immediately, Neal would drown. He held his breath, closed his eyes, and tried to push aside the instinctive panic inputs from his body's fight for life.

Relax. Think.

The waves would always be moving towards the shore. That was his direction. With a certain amount of concentration, he got oriented and gritted his teeth.

_Two lives will be lost or saved in the next few minutes. You can do this._

He swam for the shore he couldn't see with every ounce of energy in his body, kicking furiously with his legs and holding tight to that precious anklet with one hand while sweeping at the water with the other. He ignored the cold and fatigue and muscle cramps and his lungs' frantic demand for more air, and swam and swam and swam without stopping.

And then he washed up on the sandy shore. Coughing, gagging, gasping for air, he dragged Neal away from the waves until he felt dry sand under his feet, and let himself fall. Just as quickly, sat, and rolled Neal's limp body over.

Not breathing, but he had a pulse. He knelt and started chest compressions, lightly at first, hoping not to have to apply the full force required to circulate blood through the heart - and break ribs off the sternum. At six compressions, water started flooding out of Neal's mouth, and Peter immediately rolled him on to his side so he could vomit.

An agonizing series of retches, coughs, and vomiting and gasping for air later, Neal was breathing and conscious. They were both shaking uncontrollably from cold and close encounter with death.

"What happened?" asked Neal, a note of panic in his voice. "I - last I remember - I think I drowned."

"You did drown," said Peter. "I was getting nicely water-boarded by Mother Nature when your foot collided with my head _again_, and I grabbed the anklet and swam for dear life. Pumped a few gallons of water out of your chest, and here we are."

"I -" Neal went through another bout of coughing that left him splayed out exhausted on the sand. "- _drowned_?"

Peter nodded.

"That's new. Not recommended. One star."

Neal had managed to shed his shoes and jacket and shirt, which meant that neither of them would have a cell phone, even if by some unlikely chance the phone was able to survive a trip through the ocean.

Peter felt too tired to stand, and Neal was so far beyond miserable it was hard just listening to him coughing and trying to breathe and convulsing in dry heaves. They were both hypothermic. And they were going to have to make it off this beach.

His car keys would be gone too. His gun, badge, and ID were keeping them company in the ocean. The car was new enough and sophisticated enough that he wondered if even Neal could hotwire it.

Danger.

The sudden instinct made his skin crawl. He looked and saw nothing. Nobody.

Danger.

Something familiar, tickling at him. Everything was calm, even the surf seemed far away and peaceful. Like it had just before -

_Oh, shit._ _Danger._

The surf was quiet because it had withdrawn from the shore. Just like it had before the surge that had almost killed them. He'd seen enough tsunami videos to know that was what the ocean did just before it flooded everything in its path.

"Neal, you have to get up and run, or we're gonna be dead." Peter kept his tone calm, but forceful and urgent as he dragged Neal to his feet.

Neal retched and staggered, and the dull acceptance in his eyes said plainly that he'd given up. Peter shook his shoulders. "I can't carry you fast enough or far enough, and I'm not leaving you. Unless you want to kill us both, run for your life. NOW."

They ran.

Neal was limping and stumbling and gasping for air, his arm over Peter's shoulder for support, but he gave it his all. Peter wasn't finding it that easy to breathe himself through the left side of his nose where Neal's kick had connected, but he ignored it.

They reached the high tide mark, and Peter's burning legs gave out from under him. Neal fell flat on the sand, face first, and didn't move.

They had to get to high ground. He forced himself to his feet, running on pure adrenaline and force of will. This time, he was the one who wanted to give up. But no way on this earth was he taking Neal with him, or leaving El behind.

He bent down and yanked Neal's hand, hard. "Get up!" He yelled. It wasn't a plea, it was a command. "Get up and run, NOW."

And Neal did.

They ran through trees, and grass, and over pavement. They didn't exactly reach any high ground, but they got away from the shore and up a gradual incline.

Neal screamed once, and doubled over retching and coughing a couple of times, but drove himself forward.

They were limping on bruised and torn bare feet with the last of their strength when they hit pavement again.

And there it was, magically, like a mirage in a bitterly cold night with altogether too much water. His car. How on earth they'd been swept away God only knew how far and in what direction, then run in a blind dash for survival, only to end up at this exact spot, he wasn't even going to try to guess at.

He lowered Neal to the pavement as softly as his own weak muscles would allow, sitting him where he could lean his back against the rear door. Ran his hand over the smooth metal.

_Well, we found the car._

But - he knelt down in front of Neal. He looked young, and vulnerable, his eyes glazed with misery. But he was conscious, and coherent enough to meet Peter's gaze.

"Neal, is there any way you can hotwire this? The remote is at the bottom of the ocean, and I don't know how bad this tsunami is. We should get as far away as we can, as fast as we can."

Neal shook his head. "Nope. No way." A smile formed on his face and in his eyes, no less spirited for his bedraggled condition. "Under the front bumper. There's a spare."

He rolled over on his side with a low groan and crawled under the front bumper, fished around for all of about five seconds, and emerged with a grin and a spare remote.

"How - why - what -" Peter took it and pressed unlock, blinking. "How'd you even get a spare key for my car?"

He reached down and they wrapped their arms around each other so that he could help Neal stand and hobble to the passenger door.

The pause before he lowered Neal into the seat was just to allow them to regain their strength. Not a hug. No way. It just so happened to feel exactly like one.


	6. Crash Test

**PETER**

Peter blinked, trying to keep his eyes focused on the narrow strip of blacktop winding into the dark, rainy fog ahead. His GPS was playing with him, putting him on some absurd backwoods "shortcut" to the highway.

They were running the car's heater full blast, and couldn't stop shivering. Their jaws were chattering, their hands shaking. They were hypothermic, their bodies having lost more heat in the ocean then they could rebuild even in a warm car. They were going to need warm IV fluids, heat packs, and lots and lots of blankets for this uphill climb.

He glanced sideways at Neal. He was soaking wet and shivering convulsively, still struggling to breathe.

Neal might be in real danger. He'd essentially drowned, his lungs filled with salt water and still compromised. Who knew what shape he was in neurologically after being unconscious and deprived of oxygen to the brain. He also suspected resuscitated drowning victims were ideally not supposed to get to their feet and run for their lives.

Peter himself felt half drowned. His bare feet hurt, as did his face. One side of his nose was blocked with blood and swelling, and his cheek ached where Neal's blind kick had connected. He was dizzy and exhausted, but it was nothing he couldn't sleep off.

He reached for the GPS and forced his numb, shaking hands to navigate to the "Hospital" button on the GPS and pressed it. It still put him on this absurd road.

* * *

**NEAL**

Neal saw Peter punch the hospital button and grimaced, but couldn't argue. The rattle in his lungs and the pain and difficulty breathing scared him a little. His ribs hurt. His chest, sinuses, nose, and throat hurt. His leg where the anklet sat burned and throbbed, and he was afraid to look at that foot. He'd stepped on something out there in the woods, and it was on fire, his toes curled with crippling pain.

He remembered screaming, and the sick dread of realizing he wasn't going to be able to go on. At the same time, he retched again, not just from the torturous pain but from what it reminded him of.

Being unable to stand or walk with leg irons clamped around his ankles so tightly that even flexing his ankle seemed impossible. And somehow walking through that hell, because the stun gun they kept pressing into sensitive skin hurt worse.

And he made himself remember, because somehow it had given him the strength to ignore the wet, bloody pain that cut into his foot and up through his body with every step. He'd imagined being hit with that shock, and forced himself on.

Two men who thought it was hilarious to watch a human being in agony had probably just saved their lives. That was a hell of a scary thought.

He could not stop shaking. He should remove his wet pants, they were chilling him, but the thought of moving his foot nixed that idea.

Peter Burke had saved his life.

That wasn't a scary thought, but a sad one. Peter who was still gentle with him after the police precinct despite his rage. Peter who had just dragged him out of the ocean, back from death, and up to the car using superhuman strength and with complete willingness to die before abandoning him.

This being the same Peter who'd deliberately broken his heart, who'd responded to being shown one of Neal's most privately hurtful secrets by blaming it, brutally, on him, was incomprehensibly painful.

_"I'm not leaving you. Unless you want to kill us both, run for your life."_

It hadn't occurred to Neal for one instant to doubt that statement. It was just fact. Peter's moral lines were unshakable even in the face of death. They were absolutes.

_"Do the right thing and let the chips fall where they may."_

Neal shivered with the impact those words had at this moment. Peter knew right from wrong to his very core, and his strength was just as deep.

Peter had not been doing the right thing. Not since he got out of jail. Something had shaken his very foundation more deeply than merely being about to die ever could.

_"Do the right thing and let the chips fall where they may."_

He couldn't let himself trust this version of Peter. To do so would be a violation of his own soul, just as self-defeating and pointless as someone deluding themselves and going back to an abusive partner over and over again in desperate hope for the love they once found in each other to be renewed. Even Peter himself wouldn't approve.

But he would do the right thing. He would help Peter no matter what the cost. Even if the cost was death or prison, he wasn't going to leave this man behind.

The world tilted sickeningly on its axis and went black.

* * *

**PETER**

Something was wrong. Something beyond the obvious, already cataloged and filed ills. The road seemed to be shifting under them, the car seemed to be steering itself from time to time, and he kept reaching for the GPS unit, remembering only at the last moment that he'd already entered the hospital.

He was gasping for air, clawing up through the waves, then swerving for a split second when he realized he was behind the wheel.

Ah. Right. What was it hypothermia caused? Un - what?

He struggled futilely against the restraints, shivering, cold, naked, his limbs aching. And then, magically, he was able to move, and the nose of the car was headed straight for the guard rail. He swerved back on the road.

Hypothermia caused delirium and confusion. That was it. Neal should drive. Peter glanced over at the short, dark-haired Italian man on the seat beside him, and his blood ran cold.

_"You're not a person. You're just a body in a kennel. It belongs to us, and we don't give a fuck what happens to it."_

It's Neal. It's Neal. It's Neal. He forced himself, over and over, to think logically until he could see the real person on the seat beside him. Neal. Not a threatening monster, a dripping wet, half naked, unconscious figure limp in the seat.

Unconscious. If he's unconscious, he can't drive. Should pull over. But then we'll die of hypothermia, and what sort of way is that to go out when you have a job where you can die in a hail of bullets and walk away a hero?

Yep. So this is what delirious is lile. It's not delicious. Oatmeal is delicious. Wait, no, it's zero. It's that crunchy vegan stuff.

I should cut his anklet. Park car, cut anklet, wait for help. Easy.

_No. No. No._

Won't send an ambulance, they'll send Marshals and SWAT and the corrections staff and they'll think Neal killed me, and they'll strap him down in that cell and he'll die in there alone. He'll die. He'll be crying and alone and he'll die.

_Don't take the anklet off. Don't take the anklet off. Whatever else you remember or forget, do not take the anklet off. Do. Not._

There was a sickening dropping sensation, like being on an elevator when it first started to drop, but worse. Then there was an explosion in front of his face and something shot at him from the side, and all he could see was white fabric and cracked glass, and then nothing.


	7. Hanging in the Balance

The passenger side airbag slammed into Neal's side where he'd been passed out supported against the door. The other smacked him in the chin and he opened his eyes, blinking to try to clear his vision and figure out what was happening.

The airbags were deflating like sad little hot air ballons. Airbags. Car. We crashed.

Armed with that knowledge, he glanced over at Peter. He was unconscious, slumped forward against the seat belt with his head hanging limply down towards his lap.

A spike of fear and horror ran up his back. Please let him just be unconscious. Oh, God, no. He flicked on the dome light on the roof of the car.

Peter's chest rose and fell. It continued to do so regularly. Okay. Okay.

The GPS unit was black, and he had no idea where they were. His last memory had been of a little lane of some kind. He tried the door, and it wouldn't budge. The windshield was intact, and the passenger compartment didn't look damaged, but the door was stuck.

He poked Peter, and yelled at him. He didn't want to shake the agent in case he was injured, but he needed Peter to try to open the door. Peter stirred a little, starting to come around. Maybe he'd just been stunned on impact.

Peter groaned, and Neal patted him on the shoulder. "You're okay. We've been in an accident, and you need to wake up now."

Peter had a cold shoulder. Literally. His nearly-naked body was still wet, he was shivering convulsively, and he was cold to the touch.

Neal was so cold, he couldn't imagine what being warm was like. He opened the glove compartment to see if there was anything useful in there, like a cell phone or a completely furnished room with warm blankets and heat.

Just car paperwork and some gum, a small pocket knife, a pair of handcuffs, and hand sanitizer.

Knife. Anklet. Cut the anklet, instant emergency beacon. Problem solved. He fumbled the knife open, which took forever with numb and shaking hands. Then he leaned forward and almost screamed.

_Ow, ow, ow._ His foot felt like it had a spike through it. Maybe it did, for all he knew. He waited for the pain to fade back into its place of merely miserable alonside all the others, held the knife tight, and leaned forward with much more care.

The anklet was actually three pieces of firm rubber, invisibly jointed with flexible, elastic material that let it move naturally with him and gave it enough play that he could move it around and slip socks under it. It fit snugger than the first one, but this new model had been designed with comfort in mind and was almost pleasant to wear. Almost.

The problem was that is wasn't an easy thing to cut off with a small knife blade and shaking hands. The electronic key, now also located conveniently at the bottom of the sea, released a pretty decent magnetic lock.

Where it tapered down to a narrower band near the back of his ankle, the rubber was soft and flexible, like the band on a high quality sports watch. That was the weak point, actually designed to be cut in an emergency. But weak was relative. The material was pretty substantial.

He started slipping the blade between his skin and the anklet, but it hurt. It was really wet, too, and sticky. He pulled his hand away and saw blood on his fingers. No wonder his ankle was throbbing so unpleasantly.

He grimaced and went back to work, interrupted by a weak and panicked voice a few seconds later. "Don't cut it. Neal, don't cut it."

Neal straightened. "Welcome back, Peter." He looked awful, and Neal realized with a pang that the bruised and bloody nose and cheek were probably from his kick. He hadn't been aiming for the face, hadn't been aiming at all.

"Don't cut the anklet. Whatever you do, do not cut that."

"Why not?" asked Neal. "I don't know where we are, and this is the best way to summon help."

"No. You can't. Do. Not."

Peter looked more than half dead, maybe two thirds dead, but Neal decided to listen to him. "Okay, I won't cut it. Can you try your door, see if it'll open?"

Peter tried and failed. Neal went back into the glove box and pulled out the owner's manual. He opened it in the middle and inserted the handcuffs, folded together to make as solid a mass of metal as possible. Then he punched the passenger window with it as hard as he could, over and over again, until he finally cleared out most of the little squares of safety glass.

He was looking at a wall of dark rock. There was just enough moonlight for him to stick his head out and see that there was just room for him to slip out of the window and up to the top of the car. Further down, the rock tapered against the door, holding the car in a wedge.

He turned to Peter. "Listen - I can probably crawl out of there, but I did something nasty to my foot. I'm not sure I can crawl, let alone walk."

"Lemme - see," said Peter through chattering teeth.

"Thanks. First aid's not really my thing, and I'm afraid if I look at it I might just pass out again."

By inches, he worked his body around in the seat until he was facing Peter and leaning his back on the passenger door, his injured foot resting on the top of Peter's legs.

Peter looked carefully for a minute, not touching. Not hurting. Neal watched his expression closely, but didn't look at the foot. He was dizzy, and sleepy, and was too close to passing out to risk seeing it impaled on a stick or something.

Peter pointed towards a bottled water in the cupholder. "Hand me that."

Neal did, confused.

Peter unscrewed the cap. "You got - salt water - in - the wound. Gotta hurt, bad. And I can't see through - the blood."

He blinked, and Neal was willing to bet the agent couldn't see out his eyes too well either. Peter poured almost the whole bottle of water out on the sole of his foot.

The first few seconds almost made him scream, then the relief was profound. The cramping pain that had frozen him in place was replaced with "ow, that stings."

"Brace yourself for a sec, Neal. I'm gonna pull something out, and - way my hands are shaking it won't be a delicate operation."

Neal sucked in his breath, braced himself, and nodded. The pain that shot through his foot and up his leg made him gasp, but then it was over and he went limp in relief. Or as limp as he could with his whole body shivering.

Peter held up a spiked brown thistle pod the size of a crushed golf ball. "Bet this was fun to run on."

Neal raised his eyebrows. "You have some very odd definitions of fun."

The agent tossed it aside. "I don't think it caused too much damage." He tugged the blood-soaked tracking anklet away from the skin and drenched his ankle with the remaining fresh water. Grimaced. "Those scars. Think my fingernails cut them open when I was hanging on to your anklet out in the ocean."

And there was the urge to throw up once more. He swallowed rapidly over and over and over again. Peter quickly left the matter behind and moved Neal's foot until he could rest it against the upholstered seat. "Press the bottom of your foot against the fabric. Try to get it dry."

Neal was a bit confused as to how having the sole of one foot dry was much of a priority, but talking hurt his sore throat too much to demand a detailed explaination. He pressed the bloody foot against the seat. "I see it's trash the car day."

Peter fished around in the side door storage compartment and came up with a half-sized bumper sticker bearing the FBI logo and the words "White Collar Division."

He pulled Neal's foot away from the seat, pulled off the backing of the sticker, and pressed it firmly on the sole of his foot. Their gaze met, and they were both too cold and hurt to laugh out loud, but their eyes sparkled in amusement.

It was actually a darn good band-aid, and felt like it would stay put.

Neal had also positioned himself in the easiest place to crawl out the window, back to the rock face, hands able to grip the frame of the car and pull himself up. He was halfway out when he heard the same tight, terrified version of Peter's voice that had begged and ordered him not to cut the anklet.

"Don't leave me here. Neal. Please, _please_ don't leave me alone in this place."

Huh?

Neal slid back down in the seat. Peter's eyes were filled with tears, and he looked hurt, broken, and scared to death.

"Please don't leave me here."

He'd never, ever seen Peter like this. The only time he'd come anywhere close to looking this beaten and desolate was - in jail.

Oh.

He gulped hard. "I won't leave you, I promise. I won't leave you alone." Peter gasped in relief, but he was still crying.

Neal felt like crying himself, but he forced himself to confirm his suspicions. "I won't let them take you back to the cell. I'm staying right here with you."

Either Peter was going to look at him like he'd gone nuts, or Neal's heart was going to break.

Peter drew in a sharp sob and went limp in the seat. "Thank you. I'm so sorry. Thank you. I'm sorry."

Neal's eyes flooded with tears. "No. I'm sorry. Peter, I am so sorry."


	8. Lost in the Dark

Neal didn't imagine anyone could look particularly hale and hearty under the circumstances, but Peter looked like a different man. He looked old, frail, and defeated.

He didn't look at Neal, but he begged him. "Please let me go back to the cell. Please don't leave me here again."

He was shaking even harder. "I don't know what I can do or say when you don't talk to me. I'm not your enemy. I didn't murder anyone."

And then he just started crying.

Neal reached out to put a comforting hand on his arm, but Peter shrank away from the touch. "Peter, it's Neal. It's all over, you aren't in jail, it's okay."

The words didn't get through. Peter just gave up and went silent and motionless. So did Neal.

Finally he asked, "Peter, can you hear me?"

An affirmative grunt.

Neal's heart ached for Peter, and he could feel tears in his eyes, but his body was warning him that he couldn't afford to waste effort on his own emotions right now. People died from hypothermia, and they were well on their way to becoming two of those people.

Peter was semi-delirious and completely traumatized, but clearly maintained some awareness of the situation. He'd addressed Neal's injury with skill and confidence.

Okay. Be sensitive, but push him to be Peter Burke, FBI agent.

"Hey. I'm right here, you're safe. I understand what's happening to you right now, and I'm not leaving. But if we don't get help, we're going to die. It looks like we're in a ravine of some kind, so we're going to need to climb out of the car and up to the road."

Peter nodded, still not looking at him.

Neal pressed on. "What do you carry in the trunk?"

"Um." Peter closed his eyes for a second, thinking. "Shotgun. Loaded."

His eyes snapped open in a mment of clarity. There was Peter the FBI agent. "We can't leave that. I already lost one weapon today. You take charge of that gun and don't let it out of your sight."

"Okay," said Neal. "We can fire it to attract attention, what else is back there?"

"First aid kit. Not anything - in it - for us." His teeth were chattering. "Road flares. Bulletproof vest. Evidence bags. Binoculars. Juniper cables. Thing thatsit."

Neal thought about the inventory. Shotgun and road flares would be perfect for getting attention.

Evidence bags didn't sound too useful. If they were on enough of a wilderness adventure to need binoculars, these two city kids were dead, and he didn't see much point in dying with binoculars.

Bulletproof vest. As hilarious as a mostly naked FBI agent wearing a tactical vest might be to him personally, it wouldn't provide much warmth or privacy and would just weigh Peter down.

He crawled between the front seats, found the button that released the back of the rear seats so that they could fold forward, and pushed it. With the seat out of the way opening up to the little dark cavern that was the trunk, he crawled in and emerged with the shotgun, flares, and just in case they needed a rope, the jumper cables.

He hauled the supplies back to the front seat. "Okay. Have to climb out the window. I'm going first, but I'm not leaving you. I'm going to get on the roof, then help you climb out."

Peter nodded, and Neal made it out the window to the top of the car, barely. They were indeed in a small ravine, the car pinned between two rock faces.

Fortunately, it looked like small was the key word. The road was maybe fifty feet away and five or six feet up. He'd hoped the car was easily visible from the road and they could just stay in it, but no such luck.

He was dizzy and his vision kept fading in and out, and he had hardly any strength in his limbs. If he passed out...

"Peter. I'm going to fire the shotgun."

Grunt.

The shotgun was a Remington 870. Pump action, one round in the chamber and seven in the extended tube magazine - if it was the police model and Peter kept a round chambered.

He pushed the safety near the trigger off, to the right, keeping his actions slow and deliberate. He suspected that shivering felons who couldn't feel their hands were not a recipe for perfect firearm safety.

Neal took aim at soft ground near the road and pulled the trigger. The sound of the shot cracked through the night and the muzzle flash left him with little lights flashing in his vision. There had indeed been a round already chambered. Good. The more, the better at this point.

He waited a few moments, a deliberate pause to give people the chance to wonder, "Was that a gunshot?" and then fired again. He used four shots, then pushed the safety back to "on." The remaining four he'd use when they reached the road. If someone heard the shots and called the police, more shots and flares might help guide them in at that point.

His stomach tightened. They were going to get a jumpy police response, not an ambulance first on scene. Twitchy men in uniform were the last thing Peter needed to cope with right now.

He himself would really rather see the inside of a nice warm ambulance than be found with the gun and be treated to handcuffs and a police car. But the FBI took their weapons seriously, and Peter had entrusted this one to him. He wasn't about to leave it where just anyone could run off with it.

He helped Peter out of the car. Peter didn't look at him, and seemed to be operating purely on numb, mechanical instinct.

Reaching the road was one of the hardest things Neal had done in his life. Everything about him hurt, badly, right down to his lungs. Breathing was difficult, painful, and didn't work very well. He was shivering so hard he could barely walk, and his limbs were so numb that it felt like trying to climb a hill with two shaking pogo sticks instead of legs.

Peter passed out ten feet from the edge of the road. Neal walked on, lit the flares and concentrated them in one little circle, and fired the shotgun until it was empty.

Then he went back to Peter and let himself fall prone on the ground, face first, on top of the shotgun. He put his hands out to the side and up, palms down, well aware that he was going to be found by the police lying on a gun, in a state where he might not be able to obey orders.

His vision receded, and he knew he was about to lose consciousness. The concept was warm and wonderful, like the idea of crawling into a warm bed.

No. No. Try. Try to stay awake until someone comes. He gritted his teeth.

It was a young New Jersey State Police officer who found them. Neal was too close to the edge to hear anything of the radio calls, but when the officer knelt down to check if Peter was conscious, Neal was grateful that he wasn't.

The officer knelt down by Neal's side next, and noticed the barrel of the shotgun with alarm. "Empty," said Neal instantly, holding his palms flat and freezing in place. "It's empty."

The officer handcuffed him, rolled him off the gun, put it in the car, then returned and took the cuffs off while Neal tried to cling to consciousness.

"I'm sorry to do that to you," said a kind voice. Neal felt his arms being placed back down at his sides, and a warm hand on his shoulder.

"My name's Officer Chris Paley, and there's an ambulance coming to take you both to the hospital. Your friend's unconscious, but he's breathing. You guys are gonna be okay."

Neal closed his eyes to concentrate on speaking. "Please - tell them - not to separate us. He's going - to be - very frightened if he wakes up with strangers. It's PTSD. Tell them that. We're - like family. Keep us together."

And with that, he passed out.


	9. Cold Comforts

**EL**

Neal and Peter weren't identified until nurses at a New Jersey hospital cut Neal's anklet off. From that point, it took only minutes for Clinton Jones to get a call when the Marshal's office failed to reach Peter. Clinton identified them by description, and a doctor called El.

"Mrs. Burke? I'm Dr. Marsh. Before I alarm you, your husband is stable and not seriously injured. But he was admitted to the hospital unconscious and suffering from advanced hypothermia."

Her heart skipped. "Is he hurt?" She was putting on her overcoat and grabbing keys as the doctor talked.

"Minor injuries, it would appear that he was punched in the face, and he has bruises and a concussion consistent with having been in a motor vehicle accident. He also had some fluid in his lungs, probably water."

"I'll get in the car right now," said El, stuffing her feet into a pair of slip-on clogs.

"One other thing. He was admitted with a Neal Caffrey. We pulled up his medical history, and his emergency contacts are your husband, you, and the DOJ Bureau of Prisons."

She shivered a little despite herself. Having _prison_ as one's emergency medical contact sounded cold and horrible. "Is he all right?"

"He's stable. Mrs. Burke, from what we've been able to discern, he drowned and was given CPR. He was suffering from hypothermia as well. He has minor injuries, but our concern is preventing respiratory infection."

She got in the car and started the engine. "I'm on my way. Take care of those two for me."

Clinton Jones called when she was on the road. "Did the hospital say what actually happened to them, or whether there was criminal involvement?"

"No. From what he wasn't saying, I think they're completely flummoxed."

Jones sighed. "I've been on the phone with the police. They were by the side of a road in New Jersey. Peter was unconscious, Neal was barely awake and lying on Peter's empty shotgun. Peter was naked aside from a pair of boxers, and Neal wasn't wearing anything but pants."

She blinked. "What? Now I'm as confused as the hospital."

"It gets better. Their feet were torn up like they were running barefoot over a distance, but Peter's car was in a ravine fifty feet away. And they were both drenched in salt water."

"This sounds as crazy as one of Neal's undercover heist schemes."

"I don't think this was any scheme. They would have died of hypothermia if they hadn't been found when they were. uh - hold on."

Jones came back on the line a couple minutes later. "We may have found a piece of the puzzle. There was a 'seismic event,' and it triggered a tsunami that hit the New Jersey coastline. It wasn't huge, but there is flood damage and at least three people drowned."

El set her jaw and forced herself to keep breathing and watch the road. Neal and Peter in a _tsunami_? On the _Jersey Shore_? In the middle of the night? "What world did I just wake up in?" she asked.

"A really weird one," said Jones. "Call me if you find anything out."

When she got to the hospital, Peter was unconscious and Neal mostly so. A friendly young nurse was in the two-person room.

"They're both out right now. Caffrey woke up a little earlier, but he was in considerable discomfort, so we gave him some medication to help him rest. Your husband is still unconscious, but he's doing well, I'd expect him to wake up soon."

El looked back and forth between Neal and Peter. Both lay motionless under a mountain of blankets and heat packs and IV lines.

Neal moaned and struggled slightly, and she walked over to his side. "Neal? It's El. Are you okay?" No response.

The nurse said, "He's a Federal prisoner or something, he came in with an electronic tracker locked around his ankle. Is he dangerous?"

El had to laugh. "No. He's not dangerous. He's a consultant for my husband's work with the FBI, and - he's a sweetheart. He's family."

El sat down beside Peter, stroking the side of his face. "They said it's not too serious?"

"No. Their body temps are getting back up to normal. Caffrey got salt water in his lungs and is going to need antibiotics and monitoring. Burke has a concussion, but doesn't look serious. We can discharge them in a day or so if no complications develop."

There was a uniformed police officer in the room, a young redheaded guy with freckles and an alert, good-humored expression. He stood up and shook her hand. "Chris Paley. Call me Chris. I was the first on scene."

"I hear it was a pretty strange sight," said El.

Chris's eyes sparkled. "I'm sorry if this is going to sound like I find the shape these guys are in amusing. I assure you, I don't."

El smiled. "It's appropriate. These two would laugh at anything. You won't offend me."

"Okay. This one -" he pointed at Neal, "is lying there face down on an empty shotgun, hands up by his head like he pre-surrendered in case he passed out, something more felons should be considerate enough to do. He's got some kind of fancy government tracking anklet and a sticker on the bottom of his foot that says FBI White Collar Division."

El had to laugh. "He had what on his foot?"

"Near as I can tell, an FBI bumper sticker. Right on the same foot with the anklet. I've never had an unknown subject come so clearly labeled before."

She walked over to Neal's bed and rested her hand on his shoulder. A glint of metal stopped her cold, and she peeled back the blanket covering it.

"You _handcuffed_ him?" She spun to face Paley, driven by a fury she hadn't known Neal could incite in her. "He drowned, he's unconscious, he hasn't committed any crime, and you handcuffed him? Take that off, now. I don't want him waking up_ chained to a bed_."

Paley held up his hands in apology, but it looked something like surrender. "I found him with a gun and an unconscious FBI agent. I'm ready to release him once I know the story and his anklet's back on, but right now I want him restrained and so do the Marshals."

El's face was hot with anger. "That is my husband's partner and his best friend. They take that anklet off all the time for undercover work. He's gentle and kindhearted and he's taken a hell of a lot -"

Paley stopped her. "Listen! It's staying on." He waved her in for a look. "It's loosely attached to one wrist, it's not going to be unpleasant or scary to wake up to. I liked the guy in the two minutes he was conscious. I'm not going to let this hurt him."

She made herself turn away. This was a humane man, and Neal was used to being in handcuffs. She put a chair between the two beds, found Peter's hand under the blankets, then Neal's, and held on.

She leaned back and closed her eyes. She'd kept her heart out of this until now, waiting to be alone with them. And now she was stuck with a nurse and a police officer watching every move.

_I almost lost them._

Every law enforcement spouse's nightmare, getting the visit to tell them it was all over. Not hers.

Peter had always held her close in warm, strong arms, put his face against hers, and reminded her that statistically, he was more likely to die in an accident than be killed in the line of duty. And somehow, that always reassured her. She never seriously considered that an accident could take him away from her. He was Peter. Then his very own system took him away in an instant. Losing him to the job became real. Now she worried every time he left the house.

When he started having problems with Neal, she took his word at face value. She'd trusted his instinct when he'd brought a felon straight from prison into their lives, and she trusted his instinct when it was time for Neal to go.

Then he withdrew, shutting her out and pretending not to. One horrible night, he yelled at her in anger. Maybe that was Friday night for some couples, but for them? He might as well have punched her in the face. When she went to Neal, she found the same intelligent, refined, warm person he'd always been. Peter was the one who'd changed.

Now she'd almost lost both of them, to - what? A bizarre confluence of unlikely events, none of which sounded like they had anything to do with the FBI. Her wonderful, strong, beautiful husband was being ripped from her piece by piece, and a heartbreakingly loyal young man was drowning at his side.

She swallowed hard and held the two hands harder, trying not to cry. They were alive, they were going to be okay. Everything else could be fixed. Right?

Neal shifted slightly, and a minute later blinked his eyes open. "El."

She squeezed his hand. "Right here."

"Peter okay?"

"That's what the experts say. He's still out."

Neal tugged at the handcuff with his other arm, and Paley jumped up. "Easy, bud. You're okay. It's just a precaution."

"Officer Paley, right?" asked Neal.

He looked surprised. "Yes, I'm surprised you remember, considering the circumstances."

"Is Peter's gun secure?"

The officer smiled. "So that _is_ what you were doing. Good man. Yes, it is. So you're a ward of the FBI, huh?"

Neal grimaced. "Hate that word. Sounds like I'm a starring in a Dickens novel."

Paley's lips twitched in amusement. "I thought it sounded better than the others. I rejected, 'So, you belong to that guy over there,' and 'You a prisoner of the FBI, then?' for that semantic gem."

"There's never a thesaurus around when you need one," said Neal dryly. "CI or consultant works nicely. I'm under Peter's supervision, and no, I didn't smack him on the head, strip him, and dip him in the ocean."

Paley chuckled. "Okay. I'm going to stay here until Burke wakes up and someone gets you a new anklet, but I think we can take that cuff off now." He fished for his keys.

"No need to go to the trouble," said Neal, holding the empty handcuffs out to him. Paley's jaw dropped. "In appreciation of your considerate and thoughtful use of semantics."

Paley took them warily, fixing Neal with a suspicious look. "How and why did you do that?"

"It's a good sign," said Peter's sleepy voice from the other bed. "It's when he _doesn't_ smirk and hand you back your own cuffs and wallet and assorted priceless works of art that you know you're in the doghouse."

"Okayyyyyy," said Paley, recovering his composure. "I take it - uh - that it was okay to - uh - intend to remove those?"

Neal grinned, and Paley couldn't resist returning the smile.

"Yes," said Peter. "He's with me."

"He means that, too," said Neal. "He just recently dredged me up off the ocean floor along with some seaweed and unfortunately little pirate treasure."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Yes, Neal, I can find you even when you're hiding on the bottom of the sea playing dead. Let that be a lesson."

* * *

**NEAL**

It was dim and quiet now that the nurse, the cop, the Marshals, and El had been persuaded to leave. He and Peter had happily bantered back and forth, a united con of "everything's totally normal."

He was still chilled, but the hospital bed with its blankets and heat packs was deliciously snug and warm, its comfort only enhanced by medical-grade narcotics and moist oxygen. He had a new anklet, snug around his right leg this time, and a bandage on the left.

Peter was fully coherent again, tucked into a similar warm cocoon. Neal was grateful that Chris Paley had been a thoroughly good cop, given Peter's vulnerable state. And his own. Their nurse had a soft heart and a generous hand with everything comforting.

This was one of the nice moments in life. Safety and warmth and caring were never more deeply felt than in the wake of fighting for one's life.

"Neal," said Peter, his voice quiet and sober. "We have some horrible conversations ahead of us."

"Thanks for giving me something to look forward to," said Neal. He shivered, then added, "I know."

"When that wave ripped us apart, that should have been it. There was no way I could ever find you. Then I was underwater, and your foot hit me in the head."

Now there was a bit of dark humor. "My foot connected with your face again? I must really have been pissed off if I managed that."

Then he remembered what Peter had said about the scars, and felt sick. Peter had saved his life. But not before making him want to die.

"Being in the ocean and knowing I wouldn't find you - if you'd died out there... We have the chance to have those conversations, and the thought that we almost didn't is - unbearable," said Peter, his voice breaking with emotion.

Neal couldn't answer for a long time. The Peter who was traumatized and abusive was going to be horrifying to deal with in the days to come.

But he'd been given a lead to the location of the Peter he still cared about. The precious human being who had saved his life tonight, and who had once been such a force for everything good and decent and fun.

"The idea of you going away for murder was just as unbearable," he said finally. "And if Peter Burke is still locked up in a cell, I won't abandon him there."

"Good night, Neal," said Peter softly. All in all, a nice moment to fall asleep.

"Good night, Peter."


	10. Home is Where the Heartache Is

**PETER**

El didn't consult either of them before driving home and depositing Neal in the guest room. Peter wanted to object, but every time he closed his eyes he remembered how it felt in dark waves with Neal nowhere to be seen.

Neal was in decent shape for someone who'd drowned, but on enough medication to make sleep rank as one of his primary interests in life. They'd been discharged that evening, less than 24 hours after they were found. He and El were on strict orders to watch him for any signs of developing a fever or infection.

Peter walked up from the kitchen with two cups of hot coffee. The door was wide open; Neal was lying on his side under the quilt, wrapped in a night gown. He opened his eyes when he heard Peter's steps outside the door. Peter handed him the coffee, sat on the overstuffed chair near the bedside and leaned back.

They hadn't talked much in the hours since being discharged. There was too much, and they were both too vulnerable. Peter was in better shape than Neal aside from nausea and a headache, but they were both exhausted and limping around with a strong affinity for blankets.

They didn't talk about anything that had happened that night. But they were finding their way together constantly. They'd fallen asleep against each other in the back seat of the car on the way home from the hospital, finding comfort in the warmth and contact.

He sipped at the coffee, not really tasting it, but savoring the smell and the warmth.

As touching as that all was, he wished Neal wasn't in his house. Pushed together, heavily medicated and unguarded, they weren't able to hide what they might have otherwise been able to ignore.

"It's worth it," said Neal softly.

Peter startled out of his thoughts. "What?"

"Friendship."

Peter drew his breath in sharply and looked away.

"You called me. I was sitting on your bed, holding the U-boat manifest, ready to run with Mozzie and a fortune and clear skies ahead. I was looking at this place, and the photos, and thinking about you and El and the things I cherished. Saying goodbye. You called me, and said you were here if I ever wanted to talk, as a friend. I put the manifest back and told Mozzie I hadn't found it."

Peter gulped his coffee, still looking away, heartsick. This was always going to be what friendship with Neal was. Always.

Constant conflict. Emotional, legal, professional. Never just an easy, relaxed friendship.

So?

How many easy, relaxed friendships do you have? Plenty.

How many friends do you love so intensely that simply walking in the door to work with them in the morning makes you smile? Or who can move you to your core in their willingness to place their lives and futures in your hands?

"Peter, I hope one day you are capable of bonding with another person like that again."

"Another person?" asked Peter, his heart sinking. There was no other El in the world, no other true, passionate love.

And there was no other Neal Caffrey, no other friendship this aggravating and painful and heartfelt.

Peter remembered all too vividly the exchange in his office.

_"I know why you did what you did."_

Neal, standing there, his eyes glazed with barely suppressed tears, his voice low and rough with emotion.

_"Yeah. To help my friend."_

Neal, doing the worst possible thing with the best possible intentions and the most deeply caring heart.

* * *

**NEAL**

"Yes, another person," said Neal softly, trying to keep this from breaking his heart yet again. "I don't trust you any longer. With my life, sure. But my soul is scared to death of you. I can't rewind that, and if I'm to have any self-respect at all, I shouldn't try."

"Scared?" asked Peter, sounding dumbfounded.

Neal quoted his words back to him. "Someone with the right perspective. Someone who will see you as you are. A criminal?"

"Because you're a criminal, and you can't help yourself. Shame on me for expecting anything else?"

"He's the next ASAC's problem. Don't volunteer to take him on. Trust me, you'll regret it?

"Maybe you do need a lesson on how you don't rule the world?"

"It's what you are and all you'll ever be?"

Neal's hands were shaking and he was nauseated. He set the coffee down on the side table so as not to spill it. "You meant those things."

_You meant them. How could you mean them? How could you not see me there with tears in my eyes, in shock. In pain. And drive it home as hard as you possibly could._

"I didn't mean to hurt you," said Peter, looking trapped against himself and not liking it very much. "Or if maybe I did - I didn't want to. I can't believe I said what I did on the beach."

"Peter, you are a supremely competent man," said Neal, not liking the sight of the agent trying to con them both and failing.

He picked up the coffee cup and gulped down some of the burning hot liquid. He fumbled for the prescription bottles and gulped down several painkillers too. They were for physical pain, not emotional, but right now he couldn't tell the difference.

He put is head back on the pillow and looked at Peter. Anger was temporarily replacing heartbreak, and he welcomed it.

"You're the best at just about everything you decide to do, and unfortunately for me that includes cruelty. You knew what you were doing and you meant every word. You single-handedly outdid every thug and sadist I've ever met for sheer brutality, and you're the first person to do something to me I know I can't recover from."

Peter visibly struggled to cope with Neal's words, and failed. "That - doing that, saying those things - broke my heart, Neal. I was trying not to cry when I handed you that new anklet, but I thought I was doing the right thing."

"It broke mine too," said Neal softly. "You can't whip me because you're scared, Peter. I can't take it. I truly can't."

Peter twisted his head to the side, blinking rapidly and gritting his teeth to stave off tears.

"But I think I still have faith in you, somewhere, because I'm still here after you did the cruelest possible things to me. I don't know if it's apathy or learned helplessness, or a twisted version of battered spouse syndrome, or Stockholm syndrome, but I'm here."

Neal sucked in a deep breath, begging himself. _Please don't cry. Please don't cry._

Begging Peter. _Please don't hurt me. Not again. Not now. Please._ "And - when there isn't trust, there's always faith."

Neal reached out to take Peter's hand, and Peter cringed at the touch. He looked scared. Peter. Scared. It was a disturbing, awful sight, and Neal braced himself to continue.

"I'm starting to get that you can either be hard right now, or a traumatized wreck. I can't blame you for choosing hard. You've always seen me through trauma, and I'm going to do my best to do the same for you."

"I don't want to be your charity project, thanks," said Peter shortly.

"Neither did I want to be yours. Strangely, I interpreted it as caring and compassion, but then I always was one to see the good in people."

Peter crumbled. All the hardness and reserve and strength, dismantled in an instant. "Me too." His voice cracked. "I tried so hard in there, and always got utterly destroyed."

Neal gripped Peter's hand even more tightly. "I know. Nothing that happened in there was your fault."

* * *

**PETER**

Peter walked into their bedroom and lay down, feeling like a different man living in a different world. He'd been happy before the arrest. Confident, secure in his place in the world. Content.

Now, he was an emotional wreck who couldn't get a damn thing right and was scared to try.

Neal's message had been plain as day.

No. I don't forgive you. No. Things are not going back to normal. You did something bad, and you're going to have to live with the consequences. Sound familiar, FBI agent?

Would you want it any other way? Would you want to know you left Neal so broken and insecure and with such low self-esteem that he would forgive the unforgivable and come crawling back?

So walk away. Go to DC. You got what you wanted. You and Neal are still friends, if you can go through a night like that together and come out alive. But it's no longer this all-consuming, idiotic, career-suicide, emotional-suicide bond with a con artist.

If you care about his freedom, he's more likely to keep it without the only agent with a proven record of catching him watching every move.

Peter's internal pep talk wasn't working.

It was either walk away for good now, as he'd been planning to and trying to, or change his mind and go through the incredibly painful process of winning back Neal's trust. If such a thing could be done.

Neal fought so hard to win_ his_ trust, that it'd never really struck Peter how one-sided it was. Neal simply trusted him, and that was that. Neal might not understand what he put Peter through, but Peter was coming up against the uncomfortable truth that he had no idea what he'd put Neal through either.

Peter looked up when El walked back into their bedroom, shaking her head with a fond smile on her face. "What?"

"Neal on powerful narcotics is quite possibly the most adorable thing in the world," said El, sitting down beside him.

Peter had to smile, and felt a sense of profound relief at doing so. "I know the feeling."

It was impossible not to smile whenever he remembered Neal in that doctor's office. What FBI agent could resist one of the most poised and talented white collar criminals in the world meeting his threat of prison with absurdly innocent adoration, pronouncing his undying trust and singing at him?

El sighed and cuddled up next to him. "What's really going on?"

"Neal is _professionally_ adorable," said Peter. "Remember that. The person he can't have eating out of his hand in about thirty seconds is the exception to the rule."

"He'd also be very proud of that redirect. _Good job_, honey," she said, batting him on the shoulder.

Peter closed his eyes in defeat. "I didn't learn that from Neal. I actually did have skills of my own before I met him, you know."

"I know, I just seem to recall you using them on your suspects, not your wife." She propped herself up on an elbow and pinned him with her gaze. "And once again, that was a masterful display of avoidance. What's really going on?"

"Okay, enough of what I learned from Neal and the FBI. Here's something I learned from being a murder suspect: I decline to answer that."

"So I've gone from suspect to interrogator." El arched her brows. "This gets better all the time. What's really going on?"

"It's complicated and ugly and I don't want to talk about it," said Peter.

"Oh," said El, giving him a mockingly sympathetic look. "Too bad you married a squeamish Valley girl with the intellect of a house plant. What's really going on?"

"Neal paid off the prosecutor to get me out using fabricated evidence. My innocence will never be proven. I have a death penalty charge hanging over my head forever, and he thinks he did me a favor."

"No," said El, her voice hard. "He did me a favor. I'm the one who asked him to do this."

"Yes. And I know Neal, and I know that telling him to do whatever it takes to save a friend is unleashing - the hounds of hell if he has to," said Peter. "But his idea of caring and making things right involves me living a lie and covering up two crimes for the rest of my life. Not to mention all it takes is that tape being examined or Neal coming forward. When he gets arrested for something big, and he will, he has the world's best plea-bargaining chip."

El didn't look particularly impressed. "Neal would never do that to you."

"People do a lot of things when they're staring down a prison sentence."

"The man who was willing to go to prison for life to see Adler brought to justice is going to throw you under the bus to save himself? Honestly, hon? What's really going on?" asked El.

"I said I needed to be able to live with myself," said Peter. "Well, I did the cowardly thing and now I can't live with myself. I was scared, and weak, and I couldn't bring myself to walk back into a place I send people all of the time."

"We've covered this territory," said El. "And we can cover it as many times as you need to. But it doesn't explain why I just picked you and Neal up from the hospital. What's really going on?"

"Interrogation is about subtlety, and establishing trust and rapport while you sneak in sideways. You're not very good at it. Asking the same question over and over again just pisses your suspect off," said Peter, starting to feel trapped and irritated.

"Let's see. My husband was found naked and unconscious with a drowned man by the side of the road in a different _state._ Since this had nothing to do with the FBI, I'm guessing something possessed you to kidnap Neal and drive him to the beach in the middle of the night, and it ended with him punching you in the nose, both of you getting caught in a tsunami, and somewhere the car got crashed into a ravine, the seats are covered with blood and water, and - oh. The doctor says they were careful not to separate you and Neal because of your PTSD. I think I'm doing pretty good on the subtle questioning front."

Peter leaned his head back on the pillow, clenched his fists, and groaned. He could swear the headache was getting worse the longer he remained alive. "When you left the house, after our - fight. Did you go to Neal?"

"Yes," said El.

"What did you talk about?"

"You help me, I'll help you. Why don't you tell me _what's really going on_, and I'll see what I can do about giving you the information you're looking for." She smirked, in an affectionate sort of way. "Better?"

"It's not a game," snapped Peter. "If you had any idea how sick I am of everything FBI and investigation and prison and betrayal, you'd throw up."

She lay down beside him with a sigh. "I'm sorry, honey. But if you had any idea how sick I am of being locked out of your head, _you'd_ be the one throwing up. I can take whatever it is you're not telling me, but I can't take not being told."


	11. Holding Pattern

**PETER**

_"Goodbye, Peter."_

_"Goodbye, Peter."_

Peter jolted awake. He inhaled sharply and felt the tears in his eyes. He'd never heard the heartbreak in those two gentle words until now. He'd blocked it out. Why would a felon and a con artist really care who his handler was, as long as that person was a decent human being, a decent boss, and it kept him from being in prison?

_"Goodbye, Peter."_

Peter pressed his head back down against the pillow, wrenched. Because he wasn't just a felon and a con artist. He was Neal Caffrey.

_"Goodbye, Peter."_

Intelligent on so many levels, loyal, sensitive. And tough enough to take a knife to the heart and show up at the office the next day.

_"Goodbye, Peter."_

It really had been goodbye. If anything had come clear last night, it was that their bond of trust had been something far deeper than mere life and death, and that it had been severed. He'd treated one of the two most important people in his life with unspeakable cruelty.

And the man he'd kicked in the teeth had still cared enough about him to expose himself as a human punching bag, prodding at him, provoking him, letting himself be dragged in and out of police stations and verbally lashed and more or less kidnapped.

But there had been an insulated reserve in his former partner. There had been no hope in Neal's eyes. He hadn't been doing it for himself, trying to salvage their relationship.

El. Neal had done that, had put himself on Peter's firing line, to help El and Peter. It had been a selfless act.

_"Goodbye, Peter."_

Peter pressed his face against the pillow and let the tears come. A little while later he realized El was awake and gently stroking his back.

"I hurt him."

"You broke his heart," said El. "We adopted him into this family, and you sent him back to the foster home."

"I'll add that to the collection of sickening metaphors for what I did," said Peter dully.

She'd been stroking his back gently the entire time, letting her touch ease the sting of her words. She tugged his shoulder, pressuring him with the tips of her fingers to roll over and face her. He did, reluctantly. She caressed his shoulders, his chest, his face.

Peter could hardly stand to meet her eyes. "I just found out - Neal has scars on the backs of his ankles. Pretty deep ones. From -"

He looked away. This sounded so ugly. _Was_ so ugly. "From prison. They put leg irons on him - he said so tight he couldn't stand, and used a stun gun to torture him into walking in them. They cut right into the skin. From the looks of the scarring, this happened repeatedly."

Dead silence. He was pretty sure she wasn't even breathing. After an agonizingly tense thirty seconds, she said flatly, "Now I know what it's like to want to shoot someone."

"Now I know what it's like to want to shoot _myself_," said Peter. "I blew up on him and implied he deserved it. When I caught back up with him, he kicked me in the face."

"When did they do this to him?" asked El.

"When he was in solitary for escape. A week after I caught him, he proposed our deal. I turned him down flat. The next day was his admin hearing on the escape, and he was in solitary for three weeks after that."

El was holding him, he was under every blanket in the bed, and he was still shivering. He could still feel those scars under his thumb, and his desire to throw up.

"Neal's softhearted and gentle. He's a predator in his own way, but around anyone who's hurt or vulnerable, his first instinct is to comfort. I have this image in my head of those guys shocking him and forcing him to walk in agony, and I know if one of the men doing it had a heart attack, Neal would perform CPR."

He twisted his head around to look El in the eyes. He needed to know if she was blaming him for this, if he was giving her nightmares, if she really wanted to know what was in his head.

Her expression was serious and direct, her eyes narrowed slightly in anger. But the anger was at the people who'd hurt Neal, not at him. And she wasn't flinching from this in the slightest.

"I'm enabling him to pull the same tricks that landed him in prison in the first place. It feels immoral to put a sensitive, nonviolent man in maximum security, but - with his flight record? He'd be lucky if he didn't go to some supermax hell, and I just could not take imagining him locked up in there. Those places are built to contain violent people who can't be managed any other way. Managing Neal is just a matter of sharp observation and earning his trust and respect."

"I know, hun," said El, stroking his back. "But I think we need to talk about what happened to you. Because Neal still is that gentle person, but you came out of jail someone who hurt him worse than the guys who put those scars on his ankles."

"I did not. I'm allowed to get mad at him when he does something reckless and illegal. I always have been and he responds a hell of a lot more to my chewing him out than he ever will to being locked up."

"Yes. You did. You just admitted you hold more power over him than prison, so what did you think would happen when you decided to really hurt him? You shattered his trust and threw away his friendship. His heart is broken, and it's not mending."

Peter sighed and closed his eyes.

She ran the soft tips of her fingers over his eyelids, soothing the sting and wiping away the tears. "Please tell me about it," she said, still caressing him. "Stop diverting this onto Neal, stop worrying about other people for a change and worry about yourself. I love you, so much, and I need you to trust me with what wounded you so badly."

Peter gulped, dreading the pain of telling her, holding out the faint hope that it might relieve other pains. He told her about the cell, the cold, the desolation, the near insanity induced by being in an unyielding, unchanging environment for twenty-three hours a day, the hunger and fear and sense of betrayal.

And then, again, balked at what he hadn't been able to tell Neal.

"Hon, I'm your wife. I know every inch of you. I don't know this, and it hurts that you're afraid I'm going to react with anything but love."

Peter pressed his forehead against her chest and closed his eyes. El ran her fingers softly through his hair, caressed the back of his head, held him.

* * *

**NEAL**

His finger rested on the button in pure conflict.

Their fault, leaving surveillance equipment lying around the spare room. But what was he, a voyeur? He was a trusted guest in the home of two people he cared about, and he was spying on them, invading their privacy.

It was pure, basic survival. Peter held Neal's future in his hands, and was emotionally unstable. Not listening in and trying to get an idea of what he might do next would be pure folly.

The last time he'd eavesdropped on Peter talking about him, it had been to Clinton Jones, and the words, _trust me, you'll regret it_ hit him like a brick to the head.

This hit just as hard, in the opposite way. So Peter _did_ care about those scars, deeply. They both loved him. They didn't see a criminal, they saw a human being.

And this whole situation was overwhelmingly sad.

He left it running. If things turned sexual, or towards purely private matters, he decided to turn it off. But as long as concerned him, and Peter, and Peter's work, he needed to know.

* * *

**EL**

The feeling of Peter putting his face against her chest as though seeking solace and protection made her heart skip a beat. This was a Peter unfamiliar to her. Wounded, in need of comfort. And for the first time since his release from jail, he was seeking it. She kissed him on the top of his head.

"If it were a simple matter, I wouldn't have any trouble talking about it," he said finally. "Every way I think of explaining sounds either inconsequential or horrifying."

"Try," said El quietly. "I'm don't need simple, I need you. As you are, right now, trusting me to love and hold you."

"Some of this you know," said Peter, breathing a little more steadily. "How crippling it felt, arrested for murder and knowing I'd be convicted, all the worry and grief and fear that brought with it."

"I know how hard _I_ took it, and I don't really want to imagine how much worse it was for you," said El, wiggling closer, seeking warmth and contact.

He nodded and shifted closer himself, putting his arm up over her side and around her back, pressing her against his body, burying his head in the soft notch between her breast and arm. It felt like he was trying to crawl inside her and hide.

"The FBI, corruptible was a blow too. So - I got to jail in a pretty shattered state, but with a certain amount of trust. I was cooperative and accepting and - I think I was pleasant enough to deal with."

"Let's call that a given," said El. She could feel him smile.

"I was put in the disciplinary unit, in solitary confinement." He tensed as he said the words, almost shivering, and took a deep breath.

"I was handled from minute one like a convicted murderer with a serious attitude problem. Every person who worked that unit deliberately tried to demean, hurt, and break me, and I think only some of them were doing it out of sadism. I think they honestly believed I was a dangerous, despicable person."

She stroked his back silently for a long time. "Were you abused?" she asked finally. She knew in her heart, without a doubt, without even having to feel his rigid, barely breathing body against hers, that he had been.

But she wanted to know if _he_ thought he had been, or whether he was denying it. Whether the abuse had been legal and subtle, or forthright and brutal. Forthright and brutal probably would have just made him fight like hell, not broken him. But she hardly knew, these days.

"Just as complicated a question. I wasn't hit, not once. I wasn't even yelled at. I was in a clean cell with basic needs for survival met. But If I detailed how I was treated, it would sound like torture. I was locked in a concrete tomb around the clock, with nothing to do but agonize over things, and the only contact I had with people was unremittingly cruel, humiliating, and intended to crush me."

"And it did," said El softly.

Peter nodded. "Maybe if I'd gone in there something other than devastated. Maybe if I expected to be put through total hell instead of walking in with trust, I'd have been able to brace myself against it. But I just kept looking at these people and thinking they must have the wrong idea about me, and if I was cooperative and human and treated them like friends, they'd realize that. I may not have Neal's superhuman ability to charm people on sight, but I can usually get them to see I'm safe to be around and I care. It didn't work, _once_."

"That sounds just - confusing and horrible," said El, hurt and baffled herself.

She wanted to ask him for details, for what exactly being put through total hell meant. How was she supposed to support and comfort someone who only told her what_ didn't_ happen? But that was for her. _She_ cared about the details. He didn't seem to, or wanted very badly for her to think he didn't.

He took a deep breath. "I still have no idea why, or how I wound up in a place where everyone actively tried to break me. If the things they did to me are the way everyone in segregation is treated -" he shivered.

"Neal said something - about me still being locked up in a cell somewhere. I think he's right. I - didn't come out of there. But when I was released, at least there was the relief. Justice prevailed, James had done the right thing, my family and job were waiting with open arms, and whatever wounds I had I could lick in private and heal from."

"Oh," said El, drawing a deep breath, releasing it, and shuddering. "I know where this is going."

"Yeah. The fabricated evidence, having this over me for life, Neal getting me out in the most awful way, you telling him to do it, etcetera. But now - I'm not an innocent who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I'm a criminal. I'm a corrupt agent covering up crimes to save my own skin and Neal's."

"I know, hon," she whispered, kissing him on the forehead. "I know how horrible that is for you. I married the most honest, decent man in the world, and I love you."

"I want to _kill_ Neal. Being this corrupt agent haunts me to the point where I'm ready to turn myself in, regardless of the cost. But - I didn't know I was even capable of being so afraid of something as I am of walking back into that jail."

Her nails bit into his arm as she gripped it in horror. She grabbed his hair tightly with her other hand and pulled his head back to look at her. "Do not. Don't even think about it. You may not do that to me. Do. Not. Ever. If you left me for another woman or -" she stopped, momentarily distracted.

Had Peter driven Neal to that beach to drown him, or have sex with him? Either one seemed like a viable possibility these days. "-or jumped in bed with Neal, I'd find a way to forgive you. If you leave me for a _prison_? Honey, are you kidding me? Don't you even dare."

She let him go, her heart thudding in her chest so fiercely she could hear her own pulse in her ears. He was still considering it. He might as well tell her he was thinking about killing himself. No, he _was_ thinking about killing himself. Their own lawyer had said the death penalty was a very real possibility.

"I'm an FBI agent's wife. Every time I have to move the photos of a bloody murder scene off the kitchen table, or walk in to find that, oh, we're sweeping the house for bugs again, or I trip over a pile of random SWAT gear in the living room, or our dog eats your handcuff keys, I fall a little bit more in love with you. I married a practical, playful, highly intelligent man and his job, not a boneheaded martyr."

He winced with that same defeated, un-resisting look she'd come to dread so much and closed his eyes. "If you want to hear this, let me finish. What happened in there haunts me. What Neal did haunts me. What you did haunts me. What I'm doing right now haunts me. Getting an awesome, dedicated young FBI agent killed haunts me. My own cowardice haunts me. What I'll be doing to you and Neal and myself if I do the right thing haunts me. Not doing the right thing haunts me. I'm walking through life cowering right now."

He stopped for breath. "To top all that off, I - don't even want to think about what I sent Neal into. I was mad when that judge sent him to - Sing Sing was like taking a crowbar to a supercomputer and expecting it to be an effective repair. But I didn't think he was being hurt or mistreated in there. He never acted like he was or had been. After what was done to me, and seeing those scars - God, El."

She felt tears in her eyes just thinking about it. She was going to have to hug that guy one hell of a lot. That was one resilient, special human being to have never given the least indication or shown the least resentment that such a thing had happened.

But she was sick and tired of Neal Caffrey being such an integral part of their marriage that they couldn't go ten minutes in a life and death discussion about their past and future without it coming back to him.

"Honey, I'm sorry. You and Neal have gone through hell, but for heaven's sake, stop doing it to yourselves and each other! Stop doing it to me. _Move on_, please. Please, just move on and stop blaming the people who love you for having the impertinence to save your life."


	12. Suit non Grata

**PETER**

"You are suit non grata right now, _Suit_," said Mozzie with a sniff, refusing to face him or even look at him.

"And yet you're standing in my kitchen," Peter pointed out.

"Neal wants his laptop to ease his time in exile, so I do what I must," said Mozzie, wiggling the laptop and cords in his hand.

"Well, he's upstairs taking a shower right now," said Peter. "Would you like some coffee to make your time in this foreign land a little more tolerable?"

Mozzie let out a loud sigh. "Fine." He set the gear down on the table and sat, looking away pointedly and rapping his fingers on the table while Peter delivered the coffee.

They sat in silence for a few minutes while Mozzie sipped and Peter worked on the crossword. Peter knew that shutting up was the world's most effective way of getting people to talk.

"While I reserve my current low opinion of you, I do appreciate you retrieving Neal from the Kraken's clutches," said Mozzie, his tone sincere. "Thank you."

"We wouldn't have made it out without him," said Peter. "The lot where my car was parked ended up under water. If he hadn't hidden that key, we'd probably be dead. After I crashed the car, he's the one who got us out and brought in help. It was a team effort."

Mozzie looked Peter in the eyes for the first time. "Is he okay?"

Peter gave him a halfhearted smile. "Isn't he always? He's been pretty miserable, but this morning he's breathing normally and seems to be feeling better. I think he's pulling through it."

"I wish you weren't abandoning him for DC," said Mozzie. "Just remember, Neal runs when he's hurt. That's all I will say on the matter."

Mozzie folded his arms and tilted his chin up, looking resolutely at the ceiling.

"None of this is lost on me," said Peter. "None of it."

* * *

**NEAL**

Neal lay on the downstairs couch after breakfast watching TV, or at least pretending to, and setting up an elaborate proxy chain on his laptop's internet connection. Breathing no longer seemed like a perpetual struggle, and he was starting to feel like he might be off deathwatch soon.

_I drowned._

He realized he hadn't yet thanked Peter for saving his life. Maybe because drowning had been hard. Utterly panic-inducing, slow, and physically awful in too many ways to count. Whoever said it was a peaceful way to go had clearly never drowned.

Un-drowning had been worse. When he'd come around coughing and retching, his only sincere desire had been to die again, immediately. Being greeted with a demand to get up and run instead -

He shuddered and traced the tips of his fingers over the bruised area on his sternum left by the chest compressions. He'd been essentially a dead guy at that point. On top of everything else, that was hard to wrap his head around. He opened up an encrypted email program, not taking any chances with whatever monitoring Peter might have on his internet connection.

_Kev, you're working at the Berkshire Detention Center now, right? I need your help again. Only this time, the prisoner isn't me, it's an FBI Agent named Peter Burke. Yes, my Agent Burke._

_He's a sincerely good man and an honest agent, who was arrested for murder. All charges were dropped after the real killer confessed. He came out of Berkshire pretty messed up, having been "accidentally" stashed in the disciplinary unit._

_Not sure what happened to him; he specifically says he wasn't assaulted, but that everyone he had contact with was trying to break him. He's a tough, smart guy and if he says that, it was more than true._

_Any way you can swipe his records for me? And if you have any personal insight, any idea if this happens regularly or what he walked into? I'll keep your name out of all of this, but I owe it to Burke to at least find out what happened. He's baffled and hurt, and he's my friend._ _-Neal._

Neal looked it over and hit send before closing everything out and opening an innocent browser tab to _The Burlington Magazine_ and another to a list of Google news search results on the tsunami. It hadn't been major, but you wouldn't know that from the sheer volume of coverage it generated.

Kev Richter had been one of two guards who had risked their jobs to treat and comfort him in between the Asshole Brothers' attacks on him in solitary, and an eventual key player in the scheme to get rid of the two sadists. He and his partner Lyle Evans were two of the most powerful reasons he'd emerged stung but unbroken from one of the toughest things he'd ever been through. Without them, he'd probably have made Peter look stable by comparison.

_"For the next four years, I own you. You okay with that?"_

That had been the old Peter. Giving him what he wanted most in the world, but pointing out the psychological reality and obtaining his consent.

The new Peter wasn't just ignoring psychological reality. He was deliberately using it to break their friendship in the most brutal and damaging ways possible.

_"If you can't even obey ones as simple as 'don't break out of here' then maybe you do need a lesson in how you don't rule the world."_

Being in jail had scarred him into defaulting to cruel, degrading, and punitive. He'd learned that you don't have to hit someone to devastate them, under conditions that were modern-day brainwashing.

Take a person who trusts and identifies with people in authority, add a dash of Stockholm Syndrome, put him in the psychologically warping environment of solitary confinement, and treat him with emotional and physical cruelty for six weeks while he deals with the terror of losing his life and family to a false charge of murder. It could spit out a man who now thought the right thing for someone in his position to do was to devastate anyone on the other side of the law.

Including his best friend.

Peter walked in and gave him an awkward smile of greeting, and Neal's return smile was sincere. "Hey."

The relief in Peter's face was so sincere, it hurt. "Hey, Neal."

_I'm walking through life cowering right now. _El had told him to get over it. A well-meaning, logical, but impossible and unintentionally hurtful thing to tell someone with PTSD to do.

"Can I tell you something, and will you believe it?" asked Neal. Peter nodded, shifting his feet and glancing away.

"When I asked to be released into your custody, it wasn't because I was desperate to get out of prison. When I told you I didn't care that I'd get another four years, I was telling the truth."

He looked at Peter with the same surrender he'd felt that day. "When you came into that apartment and didn't point a gun or yell or cuff me, but just talked, and looked at me with affection, I adored you. I respected the hell out of you. I wanted to be friends with you and I wanted to work with you."

Peter looked down, his cheeks reddening. "And now?"

Neal missed the gentle brown eyes of that agent in the apartment so much. They were hard now, the joy and love in them gone. The sweetness and good humor stamped out. "I want to find that man and bring him home, because I miss him. A lot. "

"If you find him, let me know, okay?" asked Peter, with a wry smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'd like to have a few words with the guy for running out on me."

"We'll find him," said Neal. "We're good at that sort of thing."

This time the smile did reach Peter's eyes, and had a spark of light and life in it. "Yes we are." He glanced away again. "Neal, may I look at those scars?"

"Why?" Neal's stomach turned. "That's a cheery way to start the day, you sure you don't want to research some old murder cases instead?"

They were a deep wound branded on him forever. Ones he chose to ignore and could. Peter's reaction - he couldn't even think about without feeling sick. But last night, the grief in his voice, had been another thing entirely.

Peter looked down. "I know how I reacted was unforgivably cruel. I also put you in the hands of the people who did this. I know I can't come back from it, but I'd like the chance to apologize. To talk to you and react the way I should."

"Okay," said Neal warily.

Peter sat down at the end of the couch, with Neal's lower legs on his lap. Neal's left ankle was still bandaged, so the anklet was living on the right.

He tugged the sock away carefully, and pushed the anklet upward with a warm thumb. Neal tried not to cringe. He'd always felt safe and comfortable with Peter, always enjoyed physical contact with him.

This felt more like being molested.

Peter picked up on it instantly, looked away, took a short breath, and stood up. "I'm sorry," he said shortly, and walked out of the room.

* * *

**PETER**

Peter walked outside and sat on the front steps. It was a nice morning, warm, with a soft breeze. His head still ached a bit, but it served as a reminder of the most important thing about all of this. They were both still alive. That was no given, in fact it was absurdly improbable.

The reminder that he really could have done without was the one that he had genuinely made a wreck of Neal's confidence. Regretting it in the night was well and good, but fixed nothing. Fixing was going to take painful effort, and what unnerved him was the knowledge that he couldn't trust himself to carry it through.

One moment he was filled with love and regret, the next with fury and hurt. Other times he just didn't give a damn about anything, couldn't feel anything, and made decisions based on sheer apathy.

Neal simply wasn't going to let him in while he was this dangerously unpredictable person. Smart guy. Of course he was. Brilliant guy. In intellect and instinct.

What Neal also didn't do was hold grudges. This wasn't anything deliberate or calculated, and he was trying to trust and forgive. Peter knew exactly what it was going to take, and it was the last thing he wanted to face.

Neal wasn't ready to accept comfort or sympathy. He was waiting to provide it. If Peter wasn't willing to expose the most vulnerable part of his soul, how could he expect anything close from Neal?

Would it be so bad, telling the exact person most likely to understand? The only person he knew who who'd survived something similar, and successfully recovered? When had Peter Burke become an emotional coward?

He walked back in and moved a chair close to Neal's couch outpost, facing him. Neal met his eyes wordlessly, but with understanding and welcome.

* * *

**NEAL**

"I love the FBI," said Peter. "I'm so absurdly proud to be an FBI agent, it would embarrass a Hallmark card." He looked down.

Neal had to smile. "I can sort of tell."

"Going through Quantico inspires awe. I expected them to gloss over the not so savory incidents in the Bureau's history, but the FBI is unflinching. They taught us in detail the worst things the agency has ever been involved in, what went wrong, and what we learned. Name a major advance in modern law enforcement, the FBI probably pioneered it. Name something that went horribly wrong, the FBI has studied it and spent countless man-hours trying to prevent it from happening in the future. There is an incredible respect for the constitution and a value of human life that's humbling. Insomuch as a massive government bueaucracy can have its heart in the right place, the FBI does."

"That's a hell of a trust to have broken," said Neal softly. He wasn't sure where Peter was going with this, but it had the feeling of a prologue.

Peter nodded, looking miserable. "I've seen too many agents break that trust these last few years. Each one's hurt just a little more. I know the FBI didn't do this to me, but I don't have a lot to fall back on."

Peter pointed at Neal's ankles, took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "I - can never make my reaction right or make up for it. But the only penance that even comes close is to tell you the things that hurt me on the same level. I'd be happier never having another soul know about this, and I imagine that's how you felt."

Neal through up his hand. "Stop. I want you to trust me with what you went through, not do it to inflict revenge on yourself."

Peter set his jaw and gritted his teeth, ignoring Neal's protest. "If you want to blame me for what they did to me or just don't care, I'm prepared to accept that with no grudge or backlash."

"You don't have to punish yourself," said Neal. "I was trying to help, to show that you weren't alone. If you use it to hurt yourself, that's pretty twisted."

"And you didn't have to walk into my office prepared to face life in prison to put Adler away. You didn't have to put everything you cared about in danger to get me out of jail."

Peter closed his eyes, and cranked his head around, hard, away from Neal. "They're supposed to get every prisoner outdoors for exercise an hour a day. I'd be strip-searched, and they'd put me in handcuffs, a belly chain, and leg irons. Tight enough to hurt."

Peter struggled to breathe evenly and regain his voice. A moment later he continued. "They'd stick me in a cage like a dog kennel outside, still chained up, and leave for an hour. Outside in boxers with no shelter, either in hundred-degree sun or freezing cold at five in the morning. That - seemed deliberate."

"One time - they left me in the cage like that all night. Chained up and exposed to the weather. Someone found me there the next morning, and all I got was, oops, looks like you were forgotten."

Neal stared. Peter. This was done to Peter. His Peter. One of the most decent human beings in the world.

He sat up on the couch so that he was facing his friend knee to knee, and tried to meet his eyes. Peter couldn't do it, so Neal simply touched the back of one of his hands gently.

"Jesus Christ, Neal, what did I do to you?" asked Peter, his voice a choked whisper. "You went through four years of this?"

Neal took Peter's hand softly and stroked it with his thumb. "No. I didn't," he said in a quiet, sober voice. "I was just fine. Please believe that. Prison wasn't the least bit horrible for me."

Peter's breathing evened out a little, but he was still shaken, barely able to speak. "Did you ever try to find out why you were in that disciplinary unit from hell?" asked Neal. "Or if you could get transferred out?"

The FBI agent was trembling. "Yes."

He was pale, shaking. Neal reached out to put a hand on his arm and it was cold. "They give you any reason?"

"Neal." The usually tough FBI agent finally looked him in the eyes, and it was one of the most desolate, scarred, hopeless looks he'd ever seen. "Don't tell my wife this. Don't tell anyone. Please."

"I promise."

"They put me on suicide watch. Which meant being stripped naked, put in a bare cell, and strapped into five-point restraints. They told me I wasn't a person, I was a body, and that body belonged to them, and they didn't care what happened to it. The - restraints pulled my arms and legs apart, I couldn't move, and after a while it just hurt like hell. I was there so long I soiled myself. That was the last time I ever talked to anyone at that place."

Neal couldn't breathe. Couldn't alter his expression. Couldn't move. Couldn't feel. Couldn't talk.

Peter was seriously tough and capable under his kind and playful exterior. If they'd beaten him, he'd have been able to take it. If someone tried to rape him, Neal doubted they'd ever function again. But this -

Peter didn't just value justice and humanity. He valued dignity. He'd put Neal through some inherently humiliating things in their sordid history. But he'd always calculated it not to leave him feeling beaten or any less of a person. Suspects in his custody felt safe, and respected as human beings regardless of what else was happening.

This horror was how you broke Peter Burke. This was how you rendered him terrified and barely able to speak to his best friend when he was in jail. It was how you struck at everything he held dear without landing a single blow.

And to talk about it, he had to admit something not only personally humiliating. but something horrifying about the system he worked in. He had to shoulder part of the responsibility for it and everyone it had happened to. No wonder he hadn't told anyone.

And he probably wouldn't want to be hugged, which was the only response Neal could think of. Words weren't enough.

Finally Neal just took both of his chilled and shaking hands, held them up to his own face, and let him feel the tears that followed.


	13. Lost and Found

He's upset, thought Peter, numb. The searing intensity of grief and shame and vulnerability faded as quickly as it came. He'd exceeded the threshold of what he could tolerate feeling. He could handle the telling, barely, but not the consequences of doing so.

Neal was crying, as though this disturbed him. Turnabout is fair play, right? Neal was no sadist, he wouldn't gloat, but where was the simple truth?

_Now you know what it's like. Not so fun, is it, Fed? You want to keep grinning in delight next time you slap the cuffs on someone? Who's the coward and criminal now? Walk back in there, I dare you._

Why exactly _was_ Neal crying? It wasn't like any of this could be a shock to him. Was the need to con that great? Grabbing his hands and crying in them was so absurdly overdramatic as to be a farce. Did Neal actually think he'd fall for it?

Peter pulled his hands away and put a fist under Neal's chin, forcing him to show his face. His eyes were dark, glazed with tears, and as expressive as ever. They showed pure sadness and compassion.

No. He'd never oversell a con this badly. He's upset. He's actually upset. It's not a con. He is horrified, and he cares.

"I'm sorry," said Peter. "Why is this a big deal for you?"

Neal blinked several times in confusion. "Why is it a big deal that my best friend was humiliated and tortured by people he trusted? Did you really just ask me that?"

It was Peter's turn to blink. "Tortured? I wasn't tortured."

"Yeah, you were," said Neal. "Take ten seconds to really, honestly think about it, and then try to tell me you weren't. It's more than a big deal."

A sensation like a cold snake slithered down Peter's spine.

_If I did even a fraction of this to coerce a confession, I'd be burned at the stake in court. I'd be fired faster than I could blink. I'd be - it'd be unthinkable. And yes, it would be called torture._

Neal didn't look away, or avoid him or hide from him. It was a beautiful expression, a raw and unguarded image of grief born out of love. It looked like a moment in time that would be captured on the canvas of a priceless painting and written about through the centuries.

Peter wanted to be able to feel that, not study it. He was looking at what he'd most needed during his time in hell. But he was holding a human being like a painting to be analyzed, like a sociopath with his hand under Neal's un-resisting chin.

This was real. This was beautiful. This was the side of humanity worth saving and protecting, and living for, and he longed to connect with it.

And then he did, with a blaze of grief and anger. "How could you leave me in there?"

Neal's eyes widened.

"_Why_ did you leave me in that place? How could you see me and talk to me and know what I was going through, and act like you cared, and just walk out?" Peter's voice choked in his throat. "Did you need me to beg you?"

Neal still didn't flinch away from where Peter held him with his fist, and Peter felt Neal's chin drop. He tried not to crumble, tried not to pull away and punch Neal, tried to control this insane and irrational emotion. He heard his own pulse in his ears, and his fists clenched without his bidding.

"Why did you leave?"

"Peter?" Neal stared at him through tears. The confusion and horror in his expression deepened, joined by fear.

Peter blinked. What? What on earth did I just say to him? In what world did I - what did I expect him to do, break me out? Join me in there? The hardest part of my life right now is due to the fact that he _did_ break me out. I _hate_ him for breaking me out.

"Okay, that was illogical," Peter said wryly. "I'm calling it. I've gone insane."

"Sane is overrated," said Neal, with a tiny smile.

Peter closed his eyes. "I'm tired. I just want to crawl into a cave and come out when it's over."

_Peter, you have the right to remain silent._

Those had been the last words he heard as Peter Burke, FBI agent. Then the floor fell out from under him and his world imploded as the cuffs went on, and he'd never regained his footing.

"Peter?"

Peter moved his hand from that mean, controlling position under Neal's chin down to his shoulder, hit by emotion again. By how much he cherished this man, how deeply it hit him in the heart have someone this complex and intelligent and skilled meet him with loyalty and humility and trust. There was no reason, no real reason, for him to be sitting here taking this.

Just love.

Peter swallowed hard and rubbed Neal's shoulder. "Thank you, so much, for - being - you." Tears filled his eyes, and started to make cool streaks down his cheeks. "You have no idea - how much you mean to me."

Neal put his hand up to his shoulder and rested it on Peter's with unreserved gentleness.

"It feels wonderful, giving in and letting someone comfort you," said Neal. "It's not tough, or manly, or particularly dignified. But it's one of the nicest feelings in the world. And - it inspires kindness in people."

"Is that one of the ways you've managed to hang onto your faith in good people all this time?"

"In good part, yes," said Neal. "Being able to self-induce Stockholm Syndrome helps too."

Peter chuckled. "Am I one of your captors?"

"No."

"That's nice to hear."

"Maybe you're the one kidnapper I just can't stand."

"Maybe I should tie you up in a basement for a week."

"The way to anyone's heart," agreed Neal.

Peter hung his head, looking away, not really minding the tears in his eyes but unable to face being hit with the emotion that would come if he did take Neal's advice about comfort.

"You'll make it," said Neal. His voice was soft but absolutely confident. "You're in awe of the FBI? I'm in awe of you. I respond to absolute overwhelming force and misery by drowning, because no human being could survive what we were swept into. You responded by finding me underwater in the dark, hauling us to shore, and bringing me back from the dead. A little soul-shattering trauma doesn't stand a chance against Peter Burke."

Peter actually had to smile. Beating this sounded almost possible, when you put it that way.


	14. Predator and Prey

On the third night out of the hospital, Neal finally went home to his apartment. It was something of a relief. Being in the Burke household at this moment in time was an emotional roller-coaster. None the less, he experienced a twinge of guilt.

Peter's heartbroken, "_How could you leave me in there? Did you need me to beg?_" haunted him at least hourly. Leaving Peter behind anywhere, even in his own home with his wife, felt like a betrayal.

But - his own bed. His own kitchen. No gut-wrenching emotional conversations lurking around every corner. His wine collection. His own clothes, all of them. His own shower. It didn't take having been in prison to appreciate these things, but it sure didn't hurt.

There was a knock on the door, and he limped to answer it in a mix of dread and joy. He wanted to see her as much as he wanted to be left alone.

"Rebecca, come in." He pulled her in and kissed her, kicking the door shut. "You're worth coming back from the dead for."

"I should warn you, Neal." She poked him playfully in the chest, unaware of the bruises, and he winced. "I'm not into zombies."

"Rising from the dead is more of a religious figure thing," said Neal, leading her towards the bed by the hand while she pretended to offer playful resistance.

"Nice try, Neal. I am not basing a religion on you, no matter how beautiful this body of yours is."

"Awwww," said Neal in mock disappointment. "It was worth a try." He started unbuttoning her shirt, starting with the top button and working his way down slowly and with teasing precision.

"You look tired," she said, stroking the side of his face. "You look really tired."

"I am," he admitted. "It's been a hard few days."

She pulled his hand away from her shirt and put it at his side. "Tonight is pamper Neal night."

Rebecca undressed him slowly and tenderly, not letting him do anything but enjoy it. She caressed the lines of his body as she exposed them, a tender greeting of every inch of him, right down to the soul. She explored the bruises on his chest, and the tired lines of his face. She had him lie down on his stomach, and massaged the back of his neck.

He closed his eyes in bliss. Rarely had anything felt so wonderful. He reached out a hand for her, and she swatted him lightly on the back of the head before kissing him on the cheek.

"Stop trying to be a sweetie and let me comfort you. This is all I've wanted to do for three days," she whispered in his ear, kissing him again and again.

He relented and melted into a puddle with his eyes closed, savoring the sensation of her fingers massaging the sore muscles down his back, legs, and very tenderly, his bruised feet.

"We need to do pamper Neal night more often," he whispered.

This had to be one of the best feelings in the world, and he caught himself wondering what it would be like to share his life with Rebecca, maybe forever. 

* * *

"I can't run now, Moz. He felt abandoned by his friends and his whole world. Even in his own home, I think he needs friends around, desperately."

Neal finished tugging shreds of paper out of the jammed printer in front of him. It was ancient junk technology, but he owned it because of that. This printer didn't store anything in its memory. It was a simple, dumb tool.

Mozzie gave him a prolonged, searching look. "This seems dangerous. For you, I mean."

Neal shrugged and walked over to his laptop to restart the print job. "Yes. Since when has that stopped us? He's still Peter."

"Is he?" Mozzie raised his eyebrows.

"Yes," said Neal instantly. "He's like dealing with an injured dog who'll lick your hand for helping and then bite you the second it hurts. But - he's very, very much still Peter."

Mozzie sighed. "Fine. How can I help?"

"I need you to research an FBI agent named Marshal Tate. I need to know if there's even a whisper that he could be dirty. Is he a good person? Why does he do what he does? And I need it today."

"So I'm your own personal FBI now?" asked Mozzie.

Neal kept a watchful eye on the pages emerging slowly from the printer. He wasn't letting Peter anywhere near the documents on his laptop. No matter how many VPNs and proxies he went through, the FBI could probably figure out who this file came from. Peter got paper printouts and nothing more.

"Pretty much. I have to go to the doctor, and if Peter and I are cleared to go back to the office, I'll be tied up there."

"Okay. Why am I investigating a strange suit?"

"Remember Kev Richter?"

Mozzie's face clouded. "You mean the man who helped you with something you won't even talk to me about, so I assume it was blood-curdling and horrible?"

"Yes. I asked him for Peter's records from the detention center, and along with the records he sent a cryptic message to please have Peter contact Marshal Tate immediately."

Neal held up the just-printed stack of papers. "Speaking of blood-curdling and horrible. Kev certainly came through."

"Ah. May I make an observation?" Mozzie didn't wait for him to say no. "You seem closer to more people holding you prisoner than you do to people here in the actual, free world."

"Not an original observation, Moz. And for the record, most of the other people I know are criminals. Sometimes I do connect more with the good guys, and I don't think that's as twisted as everyone makes it out to be."

Neal stuffed the prints into an envelope. "And with that, I'm off to see the wizard of medicine." 

* * *

Neal's doctor cleared him to return to the office, with strict instructions to avoid things like running and getting chilled and being shot at.

He walked into the FBI wondering when getting shot at _wouldn't_ make a doctor's list of things to be avoided. That meant his guard was a little down when he got bear-hugged by Clinton Jones, and then much more gently by Diana. The whole office greeted him with surprising warmth and gratitude that he wasn't dead.

"Where's Peter?" asked Neal.

Diana pointed upstairs. "Hiding in the ASAC's office."

Neal eyeballed it. He wasn't at his desk, which meant he had to be almost literally hiding behind something. Not an easy thing to do in a glass office. FBI agents who work in glass offices shouldn't throw...fits?

His phone buzzed with a text from Mozzie. _New suit seems acceptable_. From Mozzie, that was glowing praise.

He texted back. "Thanks, Moz. If you never hear from me again, Peter killed me for pulling his records from Berkshire."

He flipped one last time through the chilling documents he held in the envelope, and headed for the ASAC's office. He still couldn't think of it as Peter's. 

* * *

Author Note: I can't help but notice that the last couple of chapters have been greeted with dead silence from readers. Has this gotten too long or boring?

I know at least one of you wasn't happy that Peter was becoming sympathetic and Neal was showing loyalty and compassion. Peter is not the bad guy in this. I'm not planning on painting one of these guys as morally superior to the other. Just as within the show itself, Neal and Peter are flawed but exceptionally decent human beings with deep affection for each other.

I didn't have much sympathy with the way Peter was acting in S5 canon, so I wrote this to explain it and provide that sympathy. I adore Peter's character and while I have no qualms writing him as the cruel asshole he was several times on the show recently, this is decidedly written from a place of love and affection for him.

This is, after all, the guy who ultimately decided to stay in NYC for Neal, turning away from a promotion and even separating himself from El. That's one heck of a sacrifice where actions speak louder than words.


	15. Moral Fluidity

Peter stood in the office, holding his handcuffs, looking out the window, and trembling inside. He had his back to the closed wooden door, hiding in the only private square footage in the room.

So you give yourself up. They'll convict you. It won't be fair or just, but it will be honest. You'll be able to live with yourself.

There'll be ten years or so on death row going through appeals, and then I'll be put to death. Like putting a dog to sleep. Hell, Satchmo'll have to go through it before I do. Ten years is enough time to say goodbye to life, probably to even welcome a harsh but final release.

That, or I'll spend the rest of my life in a storage warehouse for people no longer useful to society. Maybe I'll get out when I'm old and harmless. Maybe evidence technology will change the way it did when DNA came along, and some decade The Innocence Project or whatever exists then will prove I didn't do it.

It'll be hell. I'll go back to that jail, and this time it won't be six weeks. It'll be until my trial, and I'll be in misery, and just have to hope prison is better and they don't just leave me to starve to death in that cell.

Maybe if I don't go to death row, Neal and I will wind up in the same facility, and he can introduce me to his world. That'd be nice, in a horrible poetic justice sort of way.

Walk down and confess to Clinton and Diana. They'll be kind, and honest. It's better than waiting to be dragged out of here.

Peter looked again at the cuffs in his hand and felt his stomach sink. He'd long felt enormous empathy for Neal in the many times he'd cuffed him. He saw the calm acceptance, and the underlying pain and fear. He'd always tried to support Neal while he went through it.

Recognizing something and feeling compassion was one thing. Knowing exactly how it felt was another. He knew, now, why Neal always surrendered so quietly. It was horrible, but there was a peace in it that all this covering up and dread and hiding and subterfuge made him almost long for.

He knew how Neal felt, standing at his side and asking softly if he was going into the back of one of those cars too. He knew, now, why Neal never resented Peter for catching him.

Neal's a criminal in deeds, not at heart. _That's_ why it stings him so badly when I call him one.

When he says he doesn't want to run any more, he means it. He stays with me and stays in that anklet becuase he'd rather take anything I throw at him including prison than live life feeling like I do right now.

And now I'm one too. I'm not a criminal at heart, I'm the opposite. But I _am_ a criminal now. If I turn myself in, I'll still be one. I'll be branded as one for the rest of my life, and I'll wince and accept it just the way Neal does. Because it's the truth, and there's no taking it back. But I won't have to feel like a coward and a hypocrite any longer.

He put the first cuff around his wrist, but couldn't bring himself to close it. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. He felt too weak with fear and dread and grief to even close the cuff, and he concentrated on breathing. It'd be hard enough regardless, but the idea of being back in that jail while he went through this -

He heard the door to his office open, and braced himself. Moment of truth time.

"Peter?" It was Neal, and his voice took on a horrified tone when he saw the way Peter was holding the handcuffs. "You're under arrest?"

Peter kept his eyes closed. "I'm about to be. I'm turning myself in. Didn't want Jones to have to cuff me."

Neal put his arms around Peter and hugged him. Gently, with sympathy, and laid a hand on his back. This was the reaction of a man who knew exactly what it felt like.

After a minute, he spoke, not moving a muscle to pull away from the sorely needed human contact and compassion. "I'm sorry. I know I'm taking you down with me. I swear sometimes I wish I had a handler to make the choices for me that I do for you. But I'll never call you a criminal and mean it again."

Neal didn't answer, just held him. Peter lowered his head and leaned it on Neal's shoulder. This moment was going to have to last him a very long time. It might even be the last time he would ever see Neal, if they got sent to separate facilities. The idea choked him up, and for a moment he had difficulty even breathing. He wanted to feel every bit of this, and remember what it felt like to be hugged by a friend.

"See why I got tired of running?" Neal asked, his voice soft and quiet. "I adored you for arresting me, because it ended constant fear and stress. You did it with kindness, and helped me through a frightening process, and that was really all I could ask for."

He let go of their hug, and gently and soberly fitted the cuffs around Peter's wrists. Swiped the key off Peter's desk and used it to activate the double-lock.

Peter's lips formed a faint smile. "You were one of the most endearing suspects I ever arrested."

Neal put his arms around him again, holding him tight. Neal was saying goodbye too.

"Peter, if this is really how you're most at peace with it ending, I'll put a pair of those on myself right now and we'll walk down there together and do this. But if you want a handler to make this decision for you? I will. It's unjust in the extreme, and you should _not_ do this."

Peter's head fell forward and rested on Neal's shoulder. He was enormously touched by the caring acceptance, and it didn't feel like a con or an attempt to sway him. It just didn't, and he was going to trust his gut.

"It doesn't feel just, it feels awful," said Peter. "But the alternatives seem worse."

"You, put to death for a murder you didn't commit? I can't think of anything in the world that sounds less like justice," said Neal. His voice was fierce and certain. "You're talking about the single worst miscarriage of justice our legal system can produce. How can you even think about that and use the word justice?"

Peter shivered. That sounded horrible, because it was. He hadn't even seen that angle before. Contributing to killing an innocent man, even if that man was him?

"I can't control what other people in my field do, or what decisions the courts make, or even what happened that day," said Peter, doubting his certainty now. He just wanted to be at peace with himself, no matter the cost.

He fumbled through the thought process. "I can do the right thing, and behave with honesty and integrity as an FBI agent. That's my responsibility and my contribution to justice."

"Even if it means an innocent man is put to death? How hard would you fight to stop that?" asked Neal. "As long as you're looking at this in the abstract, look at that. I know you. I know if you knew someone convicted of a capital crime was innocent, you would move heaven and earth to save them."

Peter remained silent. That made sense. Damn it. If he let this sway him, would he ever know if it was out of fear or pragmatism? No, I can't be a party to a wrongful execution. Anyone's wrongful execution. In any way.

"Look at me," said Neal.

Peter raised his head reluctantly, and realized the last thing in the world he wanted to to was leave the warmth and comfort of Neal's arms. Not when it felt like it could be forever. He brought himself to pull away and meet his CI's eyes. Saw the cuffs around his wrists and shuddered inside.

"If it were me?" asked Neal. "Facing death or life in prison for something you knew for a fact I didn't do? Would you tell me to stand on principle, or run?"

"Run," said Peter without hesitation. He'd already done it, with the Marshals closing in on Neal. With a simple, certain shake of the head, he'd sent Neal on the run rather than see him suffer injustice.

"This is different. Right now, I'm covering up criminal activity to save my own hide, and that of a friend. That puts me right down on the level of a corrupt street cop."

Neal sighed. "I know you like to live in a binary world, and moral fluidity terrifies you. But if you do go to prison, you're going to find that good and bad acts have nothing to do with societally defined roles."

Neal held Peter's wrists and traced his fingers along the line of the cuffs. It was a warm, human antidote to the cold, unyielding metal and a sweet, compassionate thing to do for him.

"I promise - by the time a murderer saves your life? Maybe a CO goes after you, but another risks his career to protect and comfort you? Or maybe you'll spend the night with two prison guards, a wife-murderer, a swindler, and a drug dealer, staging a party for the chop shop owner who just had a baby girl with the CO he fell in love with in prison. This sacrifice out of stubborn morality'll seem absurd."

Peter had to chuckle. "That seriously happened?"

Neal nodded. "It was a fun night and an awesome party. And if you want to take this ride, I'll do it with you. Just don't expect that it's going to bolster your moral clarity."

Peter sighed. Trust Neal to make prison sound almost fun, while trying to talk him out of going there.

Moral fluidity. That was a pretty apt term for the sea he'd been swimming in ever since he took Neal on.

Neal was still holding his wrists and drawing warm, pleasant patterns on his skin. He was making it so that Peter barely felt the harsh metal restraints he'd spent so many miserable hours enduring in jail.

In an instant, he wanted desperately to be out of them. So badly he could scream. It was easy to forget exactly how inescapably horrible it had been. The sheer desperation with which he'd longed for Neal to get him out. The one person who'd understand, the one person who could work miracles.

He'd made up endless fantasies of the cell door opening, with Neal standing outside in a uniform with a smartass grin, and probably a fake mustache, shushing him and leading him right out the gates. And he'd cried into his folded arms in the corner of a concrete cell when they never came true.

"May I please take these off you?" asked Neal, jarring him out of his thoughts. "Please?"

Peter nodded. "Key's on my desk," he said quietly.

Neal reached for it and unlocked the metal shackles with great care, holding his wrists gently after pulling the cuffs off.

"The people who used these to brainwash you into thinking you needed to be punished were dead wrong in all meanings of the word," said Neal. "They didn't deserve or earn the power they had over you."


	16. Gourmet Cooking with Pepper Spray

**Author's Note:**

So, I messed up. I was setting this after the events of Live Feed but right before Rebecca was discovered to be who she really was. I thought there was a larger time gap there, but I just re-watched it and found that they go straight from Hagen's shooting to Rebecca's apartment.

So, as much as I personally loathe going AU on anything, it looks like it's too late to change the chronology of the story without changing things, a lot.

So just pretend that after Hagen was shot, it took them a couple weeks to find Rachel/Rebecca's apartment. That's when the events of my story up to this point have been taking place. Grrrrrrr. Sorry, guys. I can enjoy reading AU fics, but I loathe writing them :(

* * *

**Gourmet Cooking with Pepper Spray**

Peter sat like a falling sack of potatoes, planted his elbows on the desk, and put his head down on the hard, shiny surface. Neal sat too, in silence. Both needed time to recover.

After a few minutes, Neal walked downstairs and filled their coffee mugs. He would have gladly gone his entire life without knowing what it looked like when Peter Burke tried to commit suicide. He went back in and shut the door, then placed Peter's mug near his hand.

The agent looked at him. The tense, hard lines of Peter's face were smooth for the first time in a long while. Behind his eyes lay a hint of the confident, pleasant man who liked people and enjoyed life. His shoulders were slumped in relaxation, and he wasn't coiled defensively. He seemed tired, but at ease.

Neal sat down and sipped his coffee, doing some unwinding himself. Peter's body language said the decision was final, not temporary. He was no longer braced to devastate his wife and Neal and walk irrevocably into hell. No matter how hard that compromise, it was obviously a relief.

Finally Peter looked up. "You never should have put me in this position. It's the worst thing you've ever asked me to forgive."

"Oh, here we go again," said Neal. "Yay. Can I have a ten second head start to hide under a desk and plug my ears? And maybe a bulletproof vest and a riot shield, just in case?"

Peter drew a deep breath, bracing himself and ignoring Neal's snarky comment. "There's something a lot harder to admit."

"That you've been planning my murder?" asked Neal.

"Every time you left me in that place, it killed me. It felt like you were turning your back, walking away and abandoning me when I needed you, desperately."

Neal was sad. Not surprised, just sad. It'd been plain enough these last few days. "So you've been hating me for getting you out, and hurting because I _didn't_ get you out. Sounds fair."

"Yeah." Peter's voice was low, and rough in an unguarded sort of way. His expression was more relaxed than Neal had seen it in weeks. It invited challenge.

Neal set his mug down, put his elbows on the desk, and looked right at Peter.

"Okay, tell me. Tell me what I should have done. And before you say let it go to trial, remember you'd have been convicted on the evidence. Remember you had a corrupt prosecutor. Remember that when I visited you in jail, I didn't know what was going on, but I did know I was seeing a friend in indescribable pain. Remember an indictment would kill your FBI career. Remember your wife told me to do whatever it took. Then tell me what I should have done."

"Good law enforcement doesn't come down to deciding what you want and breaking every law in your path," said Peter after a certain amount of thought. He took a sip of coffee and spun the mug around on the smooth surface of the desk, studying it for answers.

"The law might seem inflexible, but it's there to force us to act on logic, not emotion. You should have tried to find James and get a real, admissible confession. You should have investigated that prosecutor until you knew the length of his nose hairs. You should have done it right."

"Yes," agreed Neal. "That makes total sense. I should have done that, because I'm a trained FBI agent with free rein to devote extensive resources to an investigation. Oh. Wait."

Neal propped his foot up on Peter's desk with deliberate disregard for the stack of case files he was defiling and tugged on his pants to expose the anklet. "Nope, I'm a felon on a tracking anklet. What should I have done? In the real world, not Peter Burkeland."

"Anything but what you did!" Peter almost yelled his reply, caught himself in mid-explosion, and paced over to the window.

"Anything?" asked Neal. "Storm the courtroom and break you out at gunpoint? Buy off a guard and sneak you to Brazil? Kidnap the prosecutor's family and force him to withdraw charges? Devote every resource Mozzie and I had to finding James? Who wouldn't confess even if we found him? Or maybe when we found him long after you were convicted, we could have tortured a confession out of him."

"Anything _legal_," said Peter.

"Look. I grasp the awful situation my actions put you in. But it's like blaming the surgeon who amputates your limb to save your life. It's irrevocably horrible, it's unfair and an agonizing choice to make, but at the end of the day it's better than the alternatives. I am so, so sorry I did that to you, but I'm still waiting for you to tell me the better option. Until you do, I'm going to call cleared and back on the job with nobody getting hurt a win."

"Ouch," said Peter, leaving the window and striding over to Neal. His shoulders were squared and his fists clenched, but the anger seemed superficial. He gripped the cuff of Neal's pants and pulled the offending foot off the desk. He sat down in its place and stared at the floor.

"Okay. I don't know if I'll ever be at peace with this. But I do see the depth of your caring, and courage, and the impossible situation you were in. I'll do everything I can to stop being pissed at you for actions taken out of love."

"Good," said Neal. "Because I'm about to make you want to strangle me again." He held up the envelope he'd brought in with him. "I _have_ learned a thing or two about investigation from you. But before we start, can I have that riot shield?"

Peter reached for the envelope and Neal snatched it from his fingers.

"Peter," said Neal, giving him a mischievous grin. "I learned some interesting things about you as a prisoner." He wiggled the packet. "You never told me about the time you bit a CO's finger off, or-"

"What? I di-"

Neal raised a hand to cut him off, still smirking. "Putting the loose bar of a handcuff through someone's jaw? That's just nasty. And pro tip? They don't like it when you strangle them with their own equipment or spit semen at them."

"Neal!"

Neal had to work to control his laughter watching the rapid-fire flashes of bewilderment and disgust and wry humor crossing Peter's face.

"Fashioning shanks out of your clothing is also not the best move, especially if you proceed to stab your CO in the eye."

"What? I did not-" Peter lunged at the envelope with a look of determination.

Neal foiled him again, holding the packet high above his head. "Let's put it this way. If I worked there, I'd feel safer taking Ted Bundy for a walk than Peter Burke."

"You got my records from Berkshire? What the - Neal, I did _not_ give you permission to do that."

"Because permission is just so _me_," said Neal. "Did you know you were transferred to Berkshire because the jail you were in before didn't feel that they were capable of managing you?"

Peter pointed at the file. "I might stab you in the eye if you don't give me that."

Neal handed it over with a smirk.

Peter snatched the papers out of the manila envelope and skimmed through them, his eyes growing wider and more perplexed as he did so.

"I'm a real piece of work," Peter said dryly after a few minutes. "I like how this warns everyone I enjoy the taste of pepper spray."

"I'm really impressed they didn't just chain you to the wall and throw scraps of raw beef in your direction," said Neal. "You'd have made a fantastic attack dog."

Peter tried not to laugh and failed. His cheeks were blushing pink and he was snickering through tightly closed lips. "Raw beef seasoned with - seasoned with pepper spray."

"Best accompanied by a fine red toilet wine, Tuesday's vintage if you can get it."

Peter snorted in glee. "That explains the shock collar, then."

Neal started to laugh, but then his stomach seemed to tilt on its axis. There'd been a notation in there that they'd put an electric pain compliance device on his wrist. Never a mention of having used it, but...

Peter kicked him lightly in the shin, like a rowdy kid teasing his brother. "I'd rather laugh, believe me."

"Okay," said Neal, but the lighthearted mood had been drained away, and Peter resumed flipping through the printouts.

"I liked the intake guys," said Peter, baffled. "They'd have been the ones with the easiest access to saddle me with this profile. But they were professional and seemed to care. They didn't just assign me to protective segregation, they discussed it with me and made sure I was okay with it."

"So I take it you don't think they were busy inventing the most violent possible history for you and logging you in as a transfer?"

Peter shook his head. "No way. I was in - absolute shock. They didn't exploit that, they tried to set me at ease. I trusted them, that's one reason everything that happened next was so -"

Neal grimaced. "Got it. Well, it doesn't excuse anything, but at least now we know why you were universally hated and nobody would listen to you. Makes it easier for decent people to look away from maltreatment, too."

"How did you get these?"

"Well, that leads to my next piece of information. I'm not telling you who gave me the records. It's someone on the inside who means a lot to me. But he had a message for you."

"Was it in a bottle?" asked Peter, raising his eyebrows with a slight smile.

"Written in lemon juice. He says you need to contact FBI Agent Marshal Tate in the Civil Rights Unit immediately, please. Emphasis on immediately and please."

Peter frowned and scribbled the name down. "What does Mozzie say about the guy?"

Neal grinned. Ahh, Peter. "New suit seems acceptable."

"Wow. High praise. I'll look into him." He looked Neal directly in the eyes. "One day, we're discussing what happened to you."

"I'd rather drink toilet wine."

Peter grimaced. "Ew." Then a spark of curiosity. "Did you, ever?"

"Ummmm, _no_," said Neal, wrinkling his nose in disgust. "And stop angsting about putting me in prison. It was nothing like what you went through."

"Okay. Next time you try to convince someone it was just fine and peachy someplace? Try not to follow it with 'Let me show you the scars from when I was tortured there.'"

"Point taken," said Neal dryly. "But while working with the FBI I've been shot, beat up, kidnapped, framed, suffocated in a comic book vault, drugged, stun gunned, threatened with an unnerving variety of weapons, and drowned. These have been some of the best years of my life."

Peter smiled and stood, bumping Neal's upper arm with his fist. "Let's go to a very late lunch. We'll try not to get shot at."

"_Boring_," complained Neal, jumping to his feet with a grin.


	17. Marshaling Courage

Neal had eaten dinner, poured himself a glass of wine, and curled up on his bed with a copy of the _DSM V_ when there was a knock on the door. He groaned and set his light reading aside.

It was El, and she didn't bother with pleasantries. "Neal, thank you." She walked in the door, closed it behind her, and hugged him fiercely.

Keeping her arms wrapped tightly around him, she tilted her head up to meet his eyes. "He told me. That he was going to turn himself in. And - that you stopped him. For good."

Neal rested a hand on her right shoulder, worried. "Why aren't you at home with him right now?"

She smiled, a little sadly but with love. "He was turning himself inside out, trying to pretend he wasn't dying to go to the office and check out that Marshal Tate character. So I told him to go, even though I'm going to DC tomorrow for the weekend. One of these days I'll see him again."

Neal gestured to the table and pulled out a chair for her. "Drink?"

"Water?

He brought her a glass and sat down with his own interrupted wine.

She cocked her head sideways and studied him closely. "You're looking good. You taking your antibiotics and everything on schedule?"

Neal chuckled. "I even manage to dress myself and tie my shoelaces in the the morning."

El crossed her eyes and stuck her tongue out at him. "I enjoy babying one of the most competent young men in the world. Get over it."

Neal laughed out loud at the combination of her expression and her words. "Speaking of babying, how is Peter? This was a hard day for him."

The playfulness left her eyes. "Serious. Tired. But - he feels solid again. Like maybe he knows who he is after all. And he can deny it until the cows come home, but having made that choice is a relief."

Neal glanced away. "Now I know what it's like to talk someone off the ledge."

"How did you do it?" asked El, mystified.

"By not trying," said Neal. "I accepted his choice completely. He'd just made the most frightening decision of his life. I think he desperately needed a couple minutes with nothing and nobody to fight, not even himself. Just to be accepted and loved. After that, he could hear, and trusted where I was coming from because it was a place of absolute honesty."

El looked at him with fierce and complete love. "You are -" she was at a loss for words. "Beautiful."

* * *

**THE NEXT MORNING**

"I'll be in my office. Nobody better disturb me unless someone's dead, or I'll make it so somebody _is_."

That had been five and a half hours ago. Neal had spent every one of those hours not so patiently combing through the details of Agent Siegel's former cases anyone who might have wanted to murder him.

It was sad work. He hated Siegel's name, couldn't see or hear it without remembering the way Peter had handed him over. It felt like being punched in the gut, or maybe lower.

He also couldn't see it or hear it without seeing a good person bleeding to death in the rain. Siegel _had_ been a good person, he was finding as he worked through the case files. A bit of a lost soul, and a better man than Neal had given him credit for. That just made the task more gloomy.

The whole office went to lunch at noon. Not Peter. Neal turned down Clinton's invitation to join them. It was absurd, but until he stopped hearing Peter's wrenching "Please don't leave me here," in his soul, he wasn't going to abandon Peter anywhere.

Not even at the FBI office. Not even if he was hungry. Not even if Peter was actually the one planning to run away to DC and abandon him. Not even if Peter would respond to such a plea on his part with something along the lines of, "_I'll leave you wherever I want, including prison_."

Neal shivered, and felt about three sizes smaller. He'd always rather adored Peter's cheerfully mean digs at him, because what'd always counted had been the steady hand on his shoulder.

He glared up at the office. How would _you_ like it, oh FBI agent?

If someone walked into your living room and said, "Hey, we're replacing your CI. Say goodbye to Neal, the guy you trust with your life and your family, because he doesn't want anything to do with you. He fucking loathes you now. Here, have a random felon we plucked out of prison in another state. No, of course you don't get a say in who it is. This one won't be so prone to silly little things like emotional attachments or loyalty. He probably won't shoot you, but hide the silverware and your banking passwords, because he _will_ take you for everything you own if you slip up. His last handler's in bankruptcy now, because - well, you know?"

Neal stood up and went to lunch, seething. Sick and tired of giving everything he had to please and help and support someone who couldn't be bothered to stick his head out of his office and say, "Hey, go ahead and take off, I'm busy with this lead _you_ gave me."

He walked out into the distracting noise and bustle of the city streets, enjoying the honking car horns and sirens and chattering voices like some people enjoy crickets and waterfalls. It was soothing and absorbing, the sun was out and the air smelled clean.

Siegel was dead. Peter was going to DC. And looking around at the parade of faces, he realized he couldn't take the idea of another new handler. Even prison, where it wasn't personal, sounded better. Okay, almost. They both sounded awful. So did running.

He finally turned in at a little French place with a green awning flapping in the breeze and colorful furnishings on a bare concrete floor. Terrible Van Gogh and Monet reproductions on the walls, and potted flowers on the tables. It was fresh and pleasant and the food was good.

After ordering, he pulled out his phone, contemplated it for a minute, then dialed the best criminal appeals lawyer in a two-mile radius for an appointment.

No more handlers.

Peter found him. Not hard, when the man could pull out a phone and track his every move. Neal was reading a newspaper and eating a salad and a sandwich. It was a lot easier to be forgiving when he wasn't hungry.

"You're like a stalker with a tech fetish," said Neal, as Peter dropped into the chair across the table from him. "Find out much on Tate?"

"Last night. He specializes in police brutality and prisoner abuse cases. Pretty good guy, spends as much time clearing innocent officers as he does nailing bad ones. Has a reputation for kindness and running clean investigations. He is investigating Berkshire. For corruption and - prisoner abuse."

"Last night? So what was today?" asked Neal.

Peter studied him. "Who gave you my records?"

"Not telling you. It's someone who took a big risk for me, no way I'm putting him anywhere near this."

Peter looked at him steadily. "There was a Kevin Richter working the segregation unit at Sing Sing while you were in there. There's a Kevin Richter working at Berkshire Detention Center now."

Neal froze. "You pulled _my_ records?"

"You don't have a monopoly on basic investigative skills," said Peter, swiping a piece of chicken out of Neal's salad.

"If he brought in the FBI, and I don't even know if he did -"

"- and the wrong people find out, he could get killed. I know." Peter gave him a frustrated but friendly glare. "The FBI has a little experience protecting witnesses."

"I said I'd keep his name out of it," said Neal.

Peter's hand was sneaking towards the second half of Neal's sandwich. Neal slapped at it. "Back, Cujo. It's not deviled ham."

"And you did. I'm the one who found him. Is this someone who helped protect you from -" Peter's eyes flicked down to Neal's ankles.

Neal didn't say anything.

"I'm asking you because if I do talk to Tate, I want to make sure I don't stumble over any trip wires," said Peter. "Please. Last thing I wanna to do is accidentally hurt a friend of yours."

"Yes. Kev and his partner," said Neal, fixing him with a warning stare. "That's a horror story for another campfire, but they're the good guys in it."

"His partner was Lyle Evans?" asked Peter.

"Yeah."

"They don't work together any more. Richter's at Berkshire, and Evans is a Sergeant at Sing Sing. Why?"

"They're not just work partners."

"Oh." Peter looked surprised, and thoughtful. "So this guy Kev is used to having to stay safe against the tide."

Neal nodded. "He trusts me, and he's a good person. I'm trusting you."

"I won't violate that, I promise."

Neal relaxed. He spotted the short, sandy-haired waiter and waved him over. "Can you bring something for my friend here? Something that a person with the taste buds of a rabid dog would enjoy? He's about to start gnawing on my leg."

Peter pointed to Neal's plate. "I'll take whatever gourmet pine-nut and sun-dried tomato reduction of lox truffles this foppish dandy is having."

The waiter gave them a polite nod and ran for his life. "He likes it with pepper spray," Neal called after him.

Peter glared. "Watch it. I'll pepper-spray _you_."

"You don't carry pepper spray, Cujo," retorted Neal.

"I'll buy some just for you. Next question," said Peter once the waiter was out of earshot. "You've earned equal say in this decision. If I was set up, we have no idea who did it. I go to Tate, this could end badly. For both of us."

"Do the right thing, and let the pieces fall where they may," said Neal, echoing Peter's own words from years ago back at him.

Peter smiled. "Okay."

"I don't want to think of _anyone_ looking as shattered as you did in that place. Saving other people from what you had to suffer through? That's worth a risk," said Neal. "And as a former prisoner, that's pretty personal to me."

There was pure adoration in Peter's eyes. "Don't ever let anyone, not even me, tell you you aren't a good man."

He took out his phone and dialed. "Agent Tate? This is Agent Burke. I've made my decision. I'll be there at four."

There was fire and life in Peter's eyes again, and Neal tried not to whoop with joy. Then he realized what Peter was going to have to talk about, in detail. "Let me drive you. I want to be there waiting for you when you come out of that interview."

Peter lowered his head and nodded. The arrival of his food saved him from having to contemplate it any further. He made most of the salad and half the sandwich vanish with supernatural speed before he spoke again.

"I was up there today investigating you," said Peter bluntly.

Neal grimaced. "And let me see. Not a trace of evidence it ever happened. Going to accuse me of lying?"

"No," said Peter very quietly. "That's one thing I know you'd never lie about. And yes, most of the surveilance tapes had very conveniently been overwritten or failed. No, there is no record of you ever being seen at the infirmary, no use of force report, not even a notation that you were injured. But there is one completely awful bit of tape that was overlooked of you - lying curled up in a cell with blood all over your legs."

Neal looked away. Maybe turnabout was fair play and all that, but he could have gone a lifetime without having Peter see video footage of him in solitary. That had been a punishment, and it had hurt him, and having Peter watch that was - a violation.

"Neal. How did they get away with it? I promise, I am going to find some way to nail the people who did this to you."

"Already taken care of," said Neal. "I fight my own battles. I don't go running to the FBI."

Peter's breath caught and he stared at Neal. "Was that a dig at my calling Tate?"

"No." Yes. And he was already regretting it.

"You're the one who sent me to this guy!" said Peter. He looked genuinely disturbed.

"I know," said Neal. "And I think you _should_ go to him. I don't know why I said that."

Peter gave him an even, knowing look. "Because when people treat you harshly and say cruel things to you, it's easy to pick up the habit?"

Neal winced and stabbed at his salad. "Don't watch any more of that footage."

Peter looked sad, and uncomfortable. "I'm sorry. But I bear a responsibility for it, and I think it's horrible but only fair that I should have to see what I sent you into. We shouldn't get to do these things on remote and be able to close the door so we don't have to see the consequences."

"Yeah, well, I'm not cool with one of the consequences be having my closest friend see me hiding in the corner of a cell crying, or counting how many times a day I go to the bathroom."

"Neal, I've been the guy sitting in the corner crying. There is video footage out there of me literally cowering when someone talks to me from outside the cell. I'm about to let a total stranger see that and a hell of a lot worse."

"Yay. We have a bond," said Neal sarcastically.

"No. We have a friendship between two people who can understand a painful, humiliating experience on a deep level. I didn't see one single thing that changed the respect I feel for you."

Neal changed the subject. "You think there's tape of what they did to you?"

"Probably. Given that file they had on me, most of what they did was legal. I imagine they expect to be able to get away with what wasn't."

Neal shivered. Peter was a brave soul. "So the most humiliating moments of your life could be shown in open court."

Peter nodded and looked away.

"I'm not sure Cujo is a badass enough name for you," said Neal softly.


	18. Redemption

Peter stopped with his hand on the door to Marshal Tate's interview room, struck with hesitation. The guy ran a civil rights unit investigating wrongful use of force and prisoner abuse.

So, OPR and Internal Affairs on steroids. Peter had yet to meet one of those guys who was in it for any reason beyond sheer glee in busting people. They were the ones who reported their classmates for passing notes in school. Pair that up with a holier-than-thou human rights crusader, and Peter figured he was in for a real finger-licking treat.

Peter pushed open the door, ready to go ten rounds with whatever administrative leech lurked behind it.

Tate was...the opposite of intimidating. He was on the small side, with short, dark, messy hair and sensitive brown eyes that reminded Peter of Neal's.

He greeted Peter with a friendly, kindhearted expression. "I'm Special Agent Marshal Tate. Thanks for braving this."

Tate wore blue jeans with a white shirt, a blue and black silk tie and a trim black sports coat. And for some incomprehensible reason, muted brown cowboy boots.

His gun was strapped into a tactical thigh holster, which should have made him look like a blustering nerd who never got over being turned down for SWAT. Instead, the overall impression was of an agreeable...Irish? Jewish? cowboy who'd decided the FBI had better computers and far fewer cows.

"Special Agent Peter Burke," said Peter, shaking his hand.

They sat down, and Tate looked him in the eyes with calm sincerity. "Before we start, I just want to say you've been through every agent's worst nightmare. I'm sorry."

Peter blinked, taken aback in a good way. If everyone at the office who'd stammered out something awkward had just said that...

"Oddly nice to hear it put that way," said Peter. "Thanks, Agent Tate."

He glanced around, so accustomed to his interview room at White Collar that the different location felt unsettling. This one wasn't sleek and designed with a view, but it didn't look like a police interrogation room, either. More like...a storage closet that someone decided to cram a round cafeteria table into and call an interview room. It smelled of dust and toner.

"Awesome, isn't it?" asked Tate dryly. "If you're nervous, the windowless 'dad just stuffed me in the closet' effect's just peachy, and combative suspects love all the loose file folders and boxes of used printer cartridges they can throw at me."

"Let's say it enhances my appreciation of the one I get to use," said Peter.

Tate's eyes sparkled. "Can I borrow it? My real interview room has toxic mold in it, and my boss giggles when I ask when I'm going to be able to move out of the closet. Call me Marshal, by the way."

"Okay, Marshal," said Peter, still wary but having a hard time staying that way. A good agent knew how to set people at ease quickly, and Tate was certainly doing that. "Tell me what you're after."

Marshal held up a hand. "First. I'm going to start recording. You're a crime victim, not a suspect. I'm not your superior, and this isn't a deposition. Ask me to stop taping at any time, and I will."

"All right," said Peter, stung by being called a crime victim.

If this guy had any clue what he was about, he'd know that was about the least tactful thing to call a _freaking FBI agent_. Or...maybe the most deliberately provoking. A way to force him not to act like one, and make him open up and be forthright. He looked like someone who would get thrown against the wall by his own suspects, not vice versa. But Marshal Tate knew exactly what he was about.

"Tell me about Berkshire," said Peter. "What exactly are you investigating?"

Tate studied him with a flicker of amusement. He recognized Peter's move to take control of the interview, but chose not to combat it.

"It's a two-pronged investigation, Berkshire's only half of it," said Tate. "They've got a reputation for being able to manage difficult prisoners, but 'manage' is a euphemism. The facility as a whole is humane, but the segregation unit - let's just say that it was _staff_ in general population who asked me to make the bastards stop breaking their prisoners. That'd be like a hedge fund manager coming to you complaining that an investment bank wasn't acting ethically."

Peter winced. "I - had a file assigned to me -" he passed a folder containing copies of Neal's printouts to Tate. "Justifies most of what happened. I'm a little impressed nobody tazered me to death."

Tate took it, giving him a steady look. "We'll come back to 'most of.' But you just brought me to the second prong. Folks in an IT firm, Matric, figured out how to snag a side income. Matric admins the system most correctional facilities use to record and share prisoner data like records, medical profiles, and court dates."

Peter's investigative instincts snapped to attention. _Not_ just a marginal excessive force complaint. "This just got interesting," said Peter.

Marshal grinned at Peter's sudden focus. "In exchange for a few grand and their souls, a couple systems admins in Matric's IT department'll doctor records to look like yours. That right there means the poor bastard's gonna have a shit time of it. Security procedures alone'd be miserable enough to make anyone who isn't rabid want to crawl into a corner and die."

Peter grimaced. "I can testify to that."

"They arrange for people to miss court dates, transfers to get screwed up, prescriptions to vanish from medical records, you name it," said Marshal, flipping through the papers Peter had given him and skimming the text.

Peter frowned. "But - doesn't it raise red flags that a couple IT guys are swimming in cash?"

"They run a web design outfit called NeoMatricX on the side. That's their front," said Marshal.

A laptop sat on the battered plastic table, and Marshal opened it up and pushed it across to Peter. There was an excel spreadsheet on screen, filled with names and reference numbers.

"Recognize anyone on this list?" asked Marshal.

Peter started scrolling through the names while Tate read his file. There were hundreds, if not thousands of them.

"Edward Walker," said Peter, zeroing in on the plain entry in ten-point black type. It would have been easy to miss. "Hedge fund manager, bank robber, smug SOB. Neal and I caught him, he's doing six years on a plea bargain."

Marshal scribbled the name down on a yellow legal pad. "Do me a favor and send me over his case files?" asked the agent. "Chances are he's the reason you spent six weeks in misery. Now I've got to prove it."

"How would Walker even know I'd been arrested?" asked Peter. He wanted, almost desperately, for that to be the case. For there to be a solid, logical, criminal reason behind the most horrifyingly inhuman, baffling, crushing experience of his life. But his arrest and booking had happened too fast for an elaborate revenge hack of records.

"It wasn't public yet, and since I refused to talk without a lawyer, I was sent to jail pretty quick," said Peter.

"There's another list," said Tate. "The hard part is proving this, but it's essentially a wish-list. Anyone on it gets booked in a facility that uses Matric, that prisoner gets a new profile and the client's billed. There are thousands of people on it."

Peter's stomach tightened and he stopped breathing for a moment. _Neal. Tell me Neal's not on it._ "Do you have the list on this computer?"

"Yep." Marshal took the laptop from him. "I'm keeping it under wraps to protect a witness, but what do you need?"

"There a Neal Caffrey on it?"

Tate frowned and scrolled through. "Yep."

Peter could feel his pulse in his ears, and his fists clenched. "Marshal, you've got to shut these guys down. That's my CI. That's - my partner. He gets arrested. If this happened to him - I'd kill someone."

_Oh, God Neal, don't get arrested._

He had to fight the urge to stand up, run down to the lobby, and shake Neal senseless until he promised not to so much as jaywalk until this case was closed. Or stick him in lockup in the FBI building. Or put him under house arrest. Anything. _Anything_ to keep him from going through that.

"I'm going to. I'm hoping you'll agree to help me."

Peter didn't hear Marshal's words for a few seconds, on a time delay. The other agent caught what had to be near panic on his face and went back a step, his voice taking on what sounded like a sincerely concerned, gentle tone. "Tell me about Neal Caffrey."

"He's in my custody on a tracking anklet. He's - incredibly intelligent, craves excitement and risk, and makes the worst impulse decisions you can imagine. He's got a good heart and a sensitive soul, and he drives me batshit insane, and he's my best friend in the world. When I got out of jail I was so pissed off and so scared for him and scared that I'll never reform him that I took the best friendship I've ever had and the most intense trust and I ripped them to shreds. I did it on purpose and he knows it, and - I'm dumping him here and moving to DC, and I just destroyed three years of doing everything I can to get through to him and help him discover how to have a good life."

Peter realized he was babbling, and his heart was pounding. "This_ cannot_ happen to him."

"Okay," said Marshal, his voice gentle. The man had the most incredibly kind face, and Peter realized that was why he'd just blurted out that uncensored mess of fear. There was none of the tough, self-protecting reserve in Marshal's manner that most agents had, and it disarmed Peter.

"We'll protect your friend," said Marshal. "If he gets arrested,_ call me_. We'll do anything and everything it takes. I promise. He will never go through what you did."

"Thanks," said Peter, all the words gone.

"Does he know what happened to you in jail?"

"Mostly. All I could bear to tell him."

"He cares about you?"

Peter nodded. "A lot. He's my closest friend."

"He been to prison?"

"I sent him there," said Peter softly. "I caught him, twice. I've been lashing out at him ever since this happened, and he's sitting in the lobby, waiting to be there for me when I come out of this interview."

Tate looked touched. "I'm guessing you're both very special people, then. Don't give up on your friend, or on yourself, okay? Broken things _can_ be fixed. We get hurt, and we heal."

Peter nodded.

"Your friend - where was he in prison?"

"Four years in Sing Sing. Pretty harsh place to put a young white collar criminal."

Marshal grimaced. "I'll say. You compare war stories?"

"Yeah. Sort of."

"What does he think about how you were treated? How does his experience compare to yours?"

"He - had one horrible, brutal experience that I wish we could prosecute. Aside from that, he says he was okay. Prison doesn't seem to have been horrible for him. At least that's what he wants me to think."

"It shouldn't have been for you either," said Tate, giving him an understanding look. He tapped one of the pages in Peter's file, his expression grim. "This stun cuff they put on you. Tell me what happened."

Peter's stomach turned. He looked away, rattled by the fact that Tate had zeroed in on that so quickly. It probably meant he wasn't the only person who'd experienced it. He tried to hold his voice even and clinical.

"The first time they took me out of the cell, I was handcuffed and wearing leg irons, and the second I walked out they strapped it onto my wrist. I was standing in my boxers, completely stunned, and said - 'I know I'm a murder suspect, and I know as an FBI agent I'm capable of violence, but I just need you to know I will never fight you. Not ever.' The guy in charge just burst out laughing."

"Did they shock you?"

Peter shook his head. "They left it on when they put me back in the cell. Told me they had the remote and would fry me if I tried to fiddle with it."

"Did that scare you?" asked Tate, his voice low and caring.

"It - confused me," said Peter. "It was unnerving, but at that point I was guessing that this was all part of some haze the new guy routine, so I left it alone and figured it was just another baffling bit of overkill."

"Until they used it."

Peter looked away. Telling Neal about being strapped down naked on 'suicide watch' had been harder. By far. But telling an FBI agent this, on record, was going to erase one more precious thread of idealism in his heart. He wanted so badly for all of law enforcement to be good, and just, and made up of the kind of people who would never abuse someone helpless.

"I was asleep, and the next moment I was twitching around yelping. I didn't even figure out it had been the cuff until a minute later. Nobody said a word - it was completely random."

It was Tate's turn to grimace. He reached out and touched Peter's knuckles with the back of his hand, not intruding but showing compassion. He didn't seem startled, but he very plainly cared.

"Not random. Deliberately cruel. You wouldn't sugar coat this if it happened to Caffrey, don't sugar coat it for yourself. Okay?" said Marshal.

Peter nodded and let out a deep breath. This wasn't as bad as he'd expected. It'd happened. Some of his white knights were black. But there was a sincerely concerned FBI agent sitting across from him, his mere presence on this case showing that the good guys were still very much in the fight.

"Sometime next morning - every fifteen minutes or so, you'd hear someone walk past doing cell checks. Whoever it was paused outside and just - shocked the shit out of me, over and over until I was screaming and trying to claw through the back wall."

"And say goodbye to sleeping normally, or hearing steps outside without bracing for attack," said Tate, looking at Peter until he was forced to meet the gaze.

Marshal's forehead was wrinkled in concern. The guy was earnest and endearing. His eyes were dark, and brown, but their sensitivity once again reminded him of Neal's. _It's okay. I know what this did to you. I know how much it hurt. I'm sorry._

Peter nodded. "They didn't use it again until maybe a week later, again with the standing outside the door. That was it. Three times. But -"

"Enough for every minute in between to be psychological torture."

"I suppose."

"How long did they make you wear it?"

"Two weeks. One of the teams I'm pretty sure wasn't corrupt removed it. I got the impression they disapproved, and they bandaged where it'd been sitting. Just having someone care enough to bandage a minor injury was rare enough to make a huge impression at that point. I thanked them, and got told to shut up unless I wanted it back on."

"Any lasting trauma after it was removed? Difficulty sleeping..."

"Yeah," said Peter. "That, fear of noises outside the cell, I'd jump out of my skin if I brushed my arm on something, and they were constantly threatening to put the thing back on me."

"What was your emotional state while you were wearing it?"

Peter frowned. Strange question. "Well, I was just generally confused. I could either think I'd done something to make them hate me, or that I'd fallen into some hellhole where every person was unfeeling and cruel. I felt betrayed, and scared because it was starting to seem like there weren't any lines they wouldn't cross. I was afraid they were going to let me starve to death. And - it made me want to throw up, thinking I'd been sending the people I arrested into this."

"Like this kid Caffrey you're so afraid for?"

Peter nodded. Tate's hand was still rested against Peter's, a grounding, comforting anchor.

"You told me how you lashed out at your friend," said Marshal. "Has there been any impact on your relationship with your wife?"

_What the hell?_

"No offense, but who cares how I feel about it, or what my family thinks of me?" asked Peter. "That's therapy, not criminal investigation."

Marshal smiled, unthreatened. "Well - just to get this out of the way, don't bash therapy. My degree is in psychology and my best friend in the world is a licensed psychiatrist. Talking to me is as close as some people get. If I'm half therapist, that's okay."

"All right," said Peter, still wary.

"I'm investigating a crime that caused no physical injury, was committed primarily using controversial but legal practices, didn't affect your career, and didn't involve traditional physical assault. I have to go at it from the standpoint of damage. If their actions caused PTSD in a stable individual, we can show that ergo, the treatment was traumatic and abusive."

"Seems like a stretch," said Peter. "I'm also not crazy about getting myself diagnosed with a crippling mental illness."

"I didn't say I'd make you get officially diagnosed. Not unless we wind up in court. I'm an FBI agent too, you know," said Marshal pointedly. "I know full well how not awesome all this is. I'm not sitting here at a distance, I feel it. Believe me."

"So what are you after?" asked Peter, caught between cynicism and his desire to trust a fellow agent.

"These are hard, but I have probably the highest conviction record out there. Most my cases are resolved in plea bargains, and not slaps on the wrist, either," said Marshal.

"How do you manage that?"

"When I do take someone to court, I obliterate them and the agency they work for. I work with the best prosecutors, have top psychologists serve as expert witnesses, and I bring in the ACLU, Amnesty International, The Southern Poverty Law Center, and The Innocence Project. I do that very rarely and only in cases where it's irrefutably justified."

"And that buys you a reputation strong enough you don't have go to trial the rest of the time," said Peter. "Clever."

Marshal gave him a little grin. "Most look into me for about a week and take the plea with thanks. I make sure it includes a safe facility where they'll be protected and treated humanely, and suddenly people get very appreciative of the merits of treating prisoners well."

"Wow," said Peter, smiling to himself. "You're a force of nature."

"May I?" asked Tate softly, pointing at Peter's arm. Peter turned over his left hand, and displayed the two tiny white scars almost invisible on the inside of his wrist.

"I need to photograph that, if you're okay with it." said Marshal.

Peter nodded, sucking in a deep breath. He was grateful for any break in the questioning, and Tate picked up on that. He took his time with the expensive DSLR, focusing, shooting, documenting, all in friendly silence.

"You asked what I'm after." Marshal tapped his pen on the table. "I feel a strong responsibility for the prisoners who are being mistreated at Berkshire. But we're talking the world's least credible, least sympathetic witnesses. Most are incapable of telling the truth, to the point where they'll make something up automatically and then instantly believe it to be true. Most are violent, and some mentally ill."

Tate studied him. It was a pleasant examination, relaxed, friendly, observant.

"What I need is a credible witness. You can't get more credible than a respected FBI agent. You're the answer to a lot of prayers, Agent Burke."

Peter closed his eyes.

If I can prevent people from suffering like I did, if I can stop the abuse of human beings, and know next time I arrest someone that I've done everything in my power to make sure I'm not turning them over to a house of horrors?

Things go bad and always will. But a world where a place like that is swept clean by honest agents and decent COs and people willing to take risks to do the right thing is a world I can live in again.

Maybe this is my shot at redemption.

"I'll be your witness," said Peter. "Whatever it takes."

Tate was an expert interviewer. Compassionate, sensitive, and with a unwavering attention to detail. Twenty minutes in, Peter found himself more at ease than he had been since his release. Two hours in, he was lost in a limbo between the jail and the interview room, but a firm, kind voice kept him on track. Four hours in, Peter sat exhausted, and it took a second to register the agent's words.

"Peter? Hey, we're done, buddy."

Peter looked up and sighed in relief.

Tate smiled. "Sorry to have put you through that."

Peter bit the inside of his lip and looked down. "It wasn't an ordeal. Don't apologize. I'm grateful you exist."

Marshal folded his hands on the table. "Agent Burke, this world is horrifying. I love this job because we get to do something about that. I'm going to do something about this, and we will have removed one of the horrors."

"Good," said Peter. He looked Tate over in curiosity. "You're not the typical OPR, IA type."

Marshal shook his head. "I love law enforcement, and I love law enforcement officers. It hurts me somewhere deep when they're cruel. It's a profound betrayal. That's why I do this job. I will never, ever screw a good officer, but I can't live in the same world where these things happen and not do my best to intervene."

Peter was filled with a sense of immense relief, the sort of wash of relaxation and hope that had failed to materialize when he was released. Things felt clear again.

"Thank you so much, Marshal."

Tate stood and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Try seeing a psychologist or at the very least going to your doctor about getting on antidepressants for a while. Close some good cases, and be kind to your friends. My team is going to handle this. You'll get your faith in humanity back bit by bit."

* * *

**NEAL**

After four and a half hours, the door to the lobby opened and Peter finally re-emerged.

His friend looked sobered and tired, but almost like a different person from the closed-off agent Neal had gotten accustomed to seeing now. The gentleness was back in his soft brown eyes, and when he looked at Neal, he actually looked at him.

"What was Tate like?" asked Neal.

"He's wonderful," said Peter quietly. A little smile spread across his face. "And he dresses even weirder than you."

He wrapped his arm around Neal's back and led him out to the car, the way he'd done so often at the conclusion of stressful, dangerous cases. It was caring and protective and affectionate, and it'd always made him completely adore the FBI agent ruling his life.

"Neal." Peter sounded deadly serious. "I care about you. I - really, _really_ care about you. And I need - more than anything I've ever asked of you, I need you to be the picture of a model citizen right now, until this case closes. You _cannot_ get arrested."

"So don't abandon me. Don't chew me up and throw me to the wolves and run away to be a politician in DC," said Neal.

It wasn't the most caring or comprehensive thing to say, but he was losing the ability to cope. He wanted, badly, to melt into that caring, to hear and feel what Peter was saying, but the competing reality of what the agent had done and was going to do was unbearable.

They were in an empty grey parking garage, their voices echoing just enough to sound sad and menacing. It was cold, and hard, and he wished intensely that just for once, humanity didn't have to be complicated and painful.

Peter stopped walking, spun Neal around so they were standing face to face, and grabbed his upper arms hard enough to hurt. "Whatever it takes. _Whatever_ it takes. I'm serious. You're on the list that landed me in pergatory. I'm this close to chaining you up in my basement, if it'll keep you from going through what I did."

"You don't have a basement, Cujo," Neal pointed out. "Um - list?"

"I'll have one installed," said Peter.

"I don't think it works like that," said Neal. "As much as I'd appreciate the gesture."

There was a round support column two feet behind Neal, and Peter shoved him back, slamming him against it. It didn't hurt, but it was startling and knocked the breath out of his lungs.

"This isn't a joke." Peter's voice was intense and fierce. "I screwed up, bad. I know. Maybe I come back from that, maybe I don't. But I'm never gonna stop trying, and protecting you's going to feel like my job until the end of time. If I have any credibility left with you, at all, listen to me when I say you have to stay out of jail right now."

The coolheaded FBI agent was terrified. For him. There was no reserve in his face, or the hands pressing Neal, now very gently, against the column.

"Okay," said Neal quietly.

Peter glanced at him after they got in the car. "You know I'm coming over to your apartment."

"I do?" asked Neal. "I guess I do now. What else would I want to do at eight thirty at night, besides entertain the FBI?"

"It's that, or I drive you back to White Collar, and make them stick us both in one of the FBI holding cells on the thirteenth floor until you actually listen to me. Your apartment has couches and booze."

"Fine," said Neal, not really sulking.


	19. Muddling Through, Part 1

AN 1: This is part 1 of 2 of a long chapter. I could make you guys wait while I finish the whole thing, or post in two parts. Figured two parts would be preferable ;)

AN 2: How many of you want part 2 to end with drunk Neal and Peter passing out on the couch cuddling, and how many want something affectionate but more hands-off?

####

Peter looked exhausted. Four hours. Four hours of having been questioned in detail about what he'd been through. Four hours of remembering it and exposing to a stranger what he'd barely been able to form the words to tell Neal.

"El would come back to town if you call her," suggested Neal.

Peter shook his head. Neal pointed him to the couch and fetched Peter a beer and a glass of wine for himself.

"How many of these you got?" asked Peter, snapping open the lid to the beer.

"Three."

That was about Peter's limit. He'd never seen the agent drunk. Neal himself wasn't prone to it; drunk, he was even more...himself. More impulsive, more emotional, excessively cuddly, and, particularly bad for anyone prone to skirting a law or two, talkative.

"Not gonna be enough," said Peter.

"I got everything we need for way too many mojitos," suggested Neal.

He eyed the gun in Peter's shoulder holster. The agent could probably be drunk and on every drug in the world and not accidentally shoot someone. Drunk and with the rage issues and pain from PTSD? Probably still okay.

Peter caught the look, hesitated for a moment, then drew the weapon and handed it to Neal along with his car keys. "Lock it in your safe."

He put them in the safe and grinned. "I think really, we should take my anklet off and put it in here too. You know, just in case...something."

"Nice try, Neal."

Neal chopped up a bunch of limes into quarters, and retrieved a bunch of mint from one of the plants out on the balcony, and then handed them to Peter in a bowl along with a potato masher. "Smash these."

Peter grinned. "With glee."

"No overkill," warned Neal, digging out shakers and syrup and soda water. "Don't shoot it, just muddle it."

"So _that's_ why you took my gun. You didn't suddenly sprout a sense of responsibility, you just didn't want me screwing up your perfect mojito."

"Pretty much," said Neal, swiping the rum out of the cupboard. "You know me _so_ well."

"Not well enough to know how to compel you to stay out of trouble. Neal..."

"I get it," said Neal. "I'll behave."

"I'm afraid one day there's gonna be no out, I'm gonna haul you in for good and - _God_ that's going to hurt."

Neal contained a shiver. He was reaching the limits of his tolerance for pain and captivity. Suddenly and horribly. He took the bowl of mint and lime from Peter and started mixing.

"Thought you'd written me off already, Peter. But I can't even get being a criminal right, because I trusted an FBI agent with my soul and got it torn to bits. Don't worry, I won't have the will to care when you drag me in."

There was a long silence, and evidently Peter decided not to defend himself. "You deserve to be so much more than someone warehoused in a prison for the rest of his life. You're a talented, intelligent, loyal, _good_ human being. Don't tell me it's okay and you don't mind prison, because I see the fear and pain you try to hide every time you're cuffed."

"Oh, I do mind it. It's just that there are things that're worse," said Neal.

He put the glasses on the counter a little too forcefully. He'd had it. He'd just had it. Right now, he'd prefer chains to this damn anklet. At least that'd feel honest, without the schizophrenic dynamic of loving and being loved by someone always ready to put him in prison, someone remorselessly holding him captive - even in the kindest possible way.

"It's funny, you trying to reform me. Because you've pretty much spent months now making sure I know all I am is a criminal. It worked. Have fun in DC, maybe you can hook up with Kramer and learn even more about how to hurt the people who trust you."

He gave the shaker a final rattle and poured their mojitos. Their very large mojitos. Boy, were they ever going to need these.

"Tell me about the list," said Neal, handing Peter his drink and sitting down on the couch beside him. The agent had completely ignored his outburst. "What's this magical document that turned you all protective?"

_And reminded me how wonderful you can be, and how much I've missed that person I caught a glimpse of in a cold parking garage tonight._

So Peter told him. About the list, and the two cases Marshal had open, and every horrible thing that happened to him in Berkshire. He was calm and unflinching, until he crumbled.

"Neal, I will never forgive myself for sending you into that place. I'm so, so sorry."

Neal felt a chill. He stood up and went to the kitchen to make a second round of drinks.

Peter was still so afraid he was condemning people to crushing misery that he had to harden himself and make himself cruel inside in order to live with sending people to prison. Until he truly believed otherwise, Peter was always going to be terrifying and unpredictable.

And it had started to come full circle. Neal had greeted a very vulnerable Peter's sincere effort to reach out to him tonight with a verbal revenge beating.

He looked Peter right in the eyes and handed him the refilled glass, emptying about half of his own in one minty, limey, shiver-inducing series of frantic gulps. No pretending, no filters of any kind. Whatever emotion he felt saying this, Peter was going to hear.

"You did _not_ send me to hell," said Neal firmly. "At the end of the day it's just people in there. There were complete assholes in the staff and scary situations with other prisoners and more complete and utter humiliation than most people see in their whole lives."

Neal stopped and took several deep breaths. "I did crawl into a corner and cry sometimes. It's really, really hard to be seen as something less than human and have no say in what happens to you."

"Yeah," said Peter, his voice thick with emotion. He knew. Neal gulped down the rest of his drink, letting the bite of the alcohol in his mouth and throat chase away the sting of vulnerable memories. Peter was doing the exact same thing, and Neal snatched the empty glass and almost ran for the counter.

It took a hell of a lot of trust for him to let his emotions show unfiltered, and given that part of him was scared to death of the man right now...

Liquid courage, not so much. At least not for him. But liquid distraction, liquid anesthetic, sure. Peter took the refilled glass from him like it was a raft in a flood.

Neal looked Peter in the eyes again. This part wasn't so hard. "There were kind, patient COs I adored, and smart, funny, awesome prisoners, and the strength and confidence that come from knowing you can handle a pretty tough prison. I liked my job, and was even kinda fond of my cell. I had a life that was worth living in there. I could never work with you to catch people if it was like what you went through."

Peter's eyes softened, and unless Neal was imagining it, started looking awfully moist. The agent was listening. Really listening, with his heart, not his head.

"That's what I used to think," said Peter, his voice gentle and reflective. "After you escaped, I went to the prison. I sat in your cell, going through your things, and thinking that after you get over that it's ugly and intimidating, there was something comfortable and peaceful about that space. The staff seemed professional, and they liked you a lot. It was reassuring to the part of me that always felt bad about you having been sent to that place."

Neal smiled. The idea of Peter sitting in his cell, not just searching it for leads on how to hunt a fugitive, but caring about his life there was touching.

"Trust your gut, Peter. You weren't wrong. That cell was a friendly place. It was home, and it meant safety more than anything else."

Peter was looking at him with thoughtful curiosity, rum and honesty setting him slowly at ease.

"I worried they'd have some unofficial 'people don't escape from here' beat-down waiting," said Peter wryly. "But considering three separate guards found ways to come beg me not to shoot you when I found you, I figured you'd be okay."

Neal chuckled. "That's about how many of them hugged me when you brought me back in one piece. The Lieutenant in charge of my unit yelled at me for about five minutes, _then_ hugged me. They'd worried. It was kind of sweet."

Peter looked sad, and touched, and a little shocked. "I don't think anyone at Berkshire would have considered hugging me for any reason, ever."

"Well, to be fair, I had a reputation for being easy to get along with. You had a reputation for trying to eat people's fingers."

Peter grinned, then his face went serious again. "So what was done to you, in solitary. Not an off the books punishment for escaping?"

"That's the excuse two sadists used. It was not okay morally or officially with _anyone_ else who found out. I wound up in solitary several times before that, and it's miserable. But nobody tried to make it worse than it was, and I was never afraid. That three weeks was - awful. But they tried to keep me sane, not break me. Compassion _did_ exist there."

And for the first time, Neal was fairly sure Peter believed him. The FBI agent knew genuine emotion when he saw it, and he was used to interpreting Neal's conflicted moods.

"Thank you, Neal. Don't like making you talk about this stuff."

Neal pried the glass out of his friend's hand and went for another drink. They were going to have to be a lot drunker for this to stop being a very serious night. His cheeks were warm from the buzz of the alcohol, and he jerked his head in the direction of the balcony. Peter nodded and they went outside into the cool night air.

Light filtered out from inside through the windows, and the cloud cover overhead glowed from the reflected lights of the city below. It struck him how fortunate they were to be alive and free to experience this, and even to suffer and fight and get drunk together. It might hurt, but they were lucky to have this chance.

"Neal, why don't you like guns?"

That - wasn't a question he'd been expecting. Neal looked down, then shrugged. Okay. Tonight, honesty it was. Maybe they'd get drunk enough to black out and forget it all tomorrow. No such thing had ever happened to him, but there was always hope.

"It's not a gun thing, it's a violence thing. I don't like seeing people suffer. You don't see me carrying knives or brass knuckles around, either."

"You _can_ use them, and well," said Peter. "Crack shot, world-class fencer...you just choose not to?"

Neal nodded.

"That sounds nice and all," said Peter. "But when it comes down to it, you put a gun to Fowler's head and seriously contemplated pulling the trigger. When it was a matter of saving our lives, you shot Keller. You're no pacifist. What's the real reason, the silly one you don't want to tell me?"

Neal let out a low laugh. "It _is_ going to sound silly."

"What's the real reason?" asked Peter again.

"It's - lazy. It requires zero intelligence or creativity. Any tweaked-out moron can pull a lever and end a life. It's harder to figure out how to get what you want without violence, but life is more challenging and rewarding and cleaner if you take the option of hurting people off the table."

Peter smiled, and leaned back against a concrete bolster. "So you purposely impose restrictions on your behavior, that don't have to be there, and that make your job harder? You love the challenge and want to go home at night with a clean conscience?"

Neal's eyes narrowed. "I get where you're going with this, Cujo."

"That's me, Neal. That's obeying the law. My job would be pretty easy if I could plant evidence, torture confessions out of impertinent bond forgers, and shoot murderers in the head without bothering with those pesky trials."

Neal grimaced. "Ew."

"You feel good about pulling off a heist without a gun? Try pulling it off without breaking the law."

Neal was listening. To every word. But he was uncomfortable. He paid attention to the background bustle of people and cars and horns and sirens combining to give the city a low, living, vibrant buzz, well aware that some people hated it. It gave him a thrill every time he listened. The air was cold and salty off the ocean, mellowed by the smell of exhaust and cooking bread and the flowers in the pot next to him.

"Look - whatever this says about me, I need adrenaline and danger in my life. If I went to work at an office trading stocks, I could earn all the money I need, but I'd want to throw myself off this balcony just to feel the wind in my face."

A foghorn sounded somewhere far out in the distance, and the blinking white and green lights of a passenger jet in a holding pattern twinkled overhead. He wanted to be on that plane, or out on a barge somewhere, ready to sneak aboard a ship and creak open a cargo container.

"Why do you think I'm an FBI agent?" asked Peter, a little frustrated. "Why do you think I threw you headlong into the risky side of FBI work instead of making you sit safely behind a desk? I crave adventure too, Neal. Being a criminal isn't the only way."

"Felons can't be FBI agents, and the whole crashing catamarans and dominatrixes in the board room snorting coke scene just isn't my thing," said Neal dryly.

"No. But they can be FBI consultants, and do art recovery, and insurance investigation - the interesting kind, not watching grandma through binoculars to make sure she's wearing her neck brace. I know a guy who rescues kidnapped people in foreign countries for a living. He works for CEOs and K&R outfits and he's a hero to every person he's stuck his neck out to extract."

Sure, he wanted to be on that plane. But there was something else, some new and wonderful aspect of his personality, that had emerged over these years with the anklet and Peter and El and Mozzie. He no longer wanted to do these things alone, or sacrifice the closest thing to stability he'd ever known just to experience the high of crawling along a line to a cargo ship through ocean spray in the dark. Just as much, he craved the warm feeling of loving and being loved.

"I think I could be happy doing something like that," said Neal. And to his own astonishment, he meant it.

"I'll help you. I'll vouch for you, I'll help you find a job or start your own company, anything you need. Let's give this story a happy ending."

"Maybe I don't want our story to end," said Neal. "That sounds sad."


	20. Muddling Through, Part 2

**NEAL**

Peter stumbled, Neal reached out to steady him, and that led to both men colliding with one of those little twisty trees that looked like barber shop poles.

"Ow," complained Peter, rubbing his forehead. "Your tree bit me."

"Cowboy up, Cujo."

Peter glared. "You've been waiting all week to combine those phrases, haven't you?"

Neal took a bow. And then staggered. And Peter put out an arm to catch him, and two rather drunk, completely overstressed men ended up face to face without time to hide it.

"Neal - there's only one of you," said Peter, looking truly devastated. "There isn't a random someone else I can pick to be friends with. There's just you. One day when I forget how to be a cruel, domineering bastard, will you let me try to - be that guy you used to trust?"

Neal's eyes stung. "You have no idea how much I want to. That guy I used to trust meant a whole hell of a lot to me."

"Give me a second chance," said Peter. "When it's safe - please."

Tears. Again.

What did I do to deserve spending half my life with tears in my eyes all of a sudden? Neal wiped them away on his sleeve, and tried to blame the rum.

"I can't handle you - being cruel. I _can't handle it_," said Neal.

And then he felt dizzy, and wondered how on earth to say that in a way that would convey how serious he was.

"You're - the only person I've ever truly trusted. If I - let you that close again, and you break that trust, you're going to break _me_. I'm not tough, not emotionally. You - made me want to die. There's no way I can take that again. I'm pretty sure that would be it for me."

Peter was trying to stand still, but continually adjusting his feet to accommodate the wobble in his legs. He was also trying to maintain eye contact with Neal, and unable to do so for more than a few seconds at a time. He finally reached his arm out and planted a hand on Neal's shoulder, holding himself steady and letting his head droop.

"If there's anything I learned from this - I'm not very tough either. And - _God_, pain hurts," said Peter. His voice was shaky and thick with emotion.

"I swear I know the weight of what I'm asking. But I keep having this nightmare of being out in the ocean and - you're gone, and it's the most desolate thing in the world. That, and that fucking cell."

Neal gave up on fighting the tears. "I'm not sure - I'm ever going to feel that kind of trust again."

They walked inside, right to the counter. Realized they'd left their glasses outside, and Peter grabbed fresh ones while Neal tried frantically to wipe the tears away. And then Peter put that familiar soft, caring hand on his back, the way he always had steadied Neal when he was in distress.

* * *

**PETER**

"You said - as long as I had faith in you, you would have faith in me," said Peter. "Did you mean that?"

_Do you still mean it? Or did those weeks in a cell cost me one of the most valuable things I've ever known?_

"Yes," said Neal, his voice wrenchingly emphatic. "And then you lost faith in me."

He sounded beyond sad. He sounded heartbroken.

"I lost faith in the whole world, Neal," said Peter. Overwhelming grief made tears sneak into his own eyes.

_I lost the world. I lost my integrity. I lost Neal. If Neal's right about DC, that I'm running away, I may have just lost a job and a team I loved._

Neal just looked small and miserable. "You lost faith in me, and your way of dealing with that was to betray and hurt someone who trusted you with -" he couldn't continue.

"Oh, Neal. I feel like I shot you."

He did. If for any incomprehensible reason he ever injured Neal, he imagined the sickening grief and pain and frantic desire to undo it would feel a lot like this.

Neal gave a low, dark laugh. "Oh, believe me, that would have been easier. I would have quietly passed out, confused as could be and figuring that when I woke up in the ICU you'd tell me why you did it, and it would all make perfect sense."

In other words, _you could shoot me in the chest and still not shake my trust in you. You used what you know about me to do something worse._

He was this close to crawling into Neal's arms and crying, and pleading for forgiveness. What was stopping him was exactly what was stopping Neal from forgiving him.

Fear.

Fear of how much it could hurt if he dropped the reserve, and stopped protecting his heart against Neal. Criminals weren't sweet and fluffy. They lied, deceived, gained trust in order to exploit it, and were fond of revenge. And they could play very, very long cons and betray without remorse or pity. It would hurt too badly to even contemplate if he trusted a con artist and got what was coming to him.

"Neal - I need to know." Peter drew a deep breath. "Am I the mark in the world's longest con?"

"_No_."

Reading Neal Caffrey wasn't all that hard. The hard part was sorting out the incredible complexity of his conflicted emotions. He was an open book, but only if you could read really fast.

Unless he was acting. When he was acting, he could channel his emotions, cross the wires, so that what he was really feeling got turned into what his mark needed to see. And that, Peter was less confident in his ability to spot.

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. Peter, what would I be conning you for, anyway? Your world-class beer collection?"

"A free pass out of prison. A pet FBI agent. Defang the one guy who's the biggest threat to your freedom, and make him care about you and cover for you? You're unstoppable with a Fed on your side. Top it off by getting revenge on the man who put you in prison by sticking a dagger in my heart?"

* * *

**NEAL**

If Peter didn't look so worried about what Neal's answer might be, Neal would have felt stung by the cynical question.

"_No_. No. _No_. Peter, you know me. Friendship means more than a big score, or avoiding prison, or any of it. I am what I am, but - betraying wonderful people who trust me - no. That's not me."

Peter rubbed Neal's back with his thumb gently, then let his hand fall away. The agent took a sip of his drink, using it more as a displacement behavior than recreation. He went and stood in front of an easel.

"I think you should teach me how to forge a Rafael."

"Uh - that's - complicated. You'd at least have to improve your stick figures first."

Peter dragged over a chair and sat down, staring at the blank canvas.

"You taught art classes in prison," said Peter. "You can do it."

"You're like an officially licensed stalker!" protested Neal.

But he pulled out paints, and a palette, and some brushes. Squeezed out basic colors, and doodled a stick figure. Labeled it "Peter," and then handed the brush over.

"Now you do me," said Neal, flopping down on his stomach and propping himself up with his elbows planted on the floor. The alcohol didn't seem to be doing its hoped-for part in muddling his mind, but it was making him feel most secure when braced against a solid object.

"Rafael," Peter insisted.

"Okay, paint the outline of a horse."

Peter tried, and the results were hilarious.

"Nice dogicorn," said Neal.

Peter glared. "Is this how you coach people who can shank you?"

"Absolutely not," said Neal.

"Thought so."

"For someone who could shank me, it'd be 'nice fucking dogicorn, asshole.' Better?"

"Not in the least bit. And you're cutting into my lesson time."

Neal closed his eyes, drawing a complete blank on how he might even begin to instruct someone who could be outpainted by a preschooler on how to forge a master.

They must have stayed closed for longer than he thought, because the next thing he was aware of was Peter joining him on the floor.

Peter fished the electronic key from his pocket and wiggled it at Neal. "May I?" he asked, nodding towards the anklet.

Neal nodded. Didn't really know what Peter was up to, didn't really care. Odd, though, asking permission. He was the prisoner, and as Peter made repeatedly and abundantly clear, the FBI could do whatever they pleased with him.

Peter was fumbling to align the key, but finally got it right and tugged the anklet loose. He tossed them both across the room without even looking to see where they wound up.

The anklet's evil powers were symbolic. Physically wearing it didn't bother him at all, backtalk to Peter aside. He actually kind of missed the snug contact when it was off. But it was sweet of the agent to listen and care.

Oh. Right. Taking it off was symbolic.

Okay. Mind was muddled after all. Good.

And Peter _was_ sweet.

"Thanks."

"Looking forward to doing that for real," said Peter.

Peter drained the last of his drink, picked up the paint brush, and doodled it around on the back of Neal's hand.

"Hey!" protested Neal. "You're supposed to draw on me _after_ I pass out drunk."

Peter painted an entire geometric framework on the back of Neal's hand in ultramarine blue while Neal stared at him in fascinated confusion. He wasn't _that_ drunk. Was he?

"I've put you through a lot," said Peter, setting the brush aside. "And you stick around for it, when all you have to do is move your hand. What makes it worthwhile?"

"Having a friend to sit on the floor drinking mojitos with, while he inexplicably starts painting on me," said Neal. "You've felt what alone is like. This is heaven. I don't care how weird it is."

Peter smiled, and Neal stood up and took their glasses for a refill. When he returned, he sat down beside Peter and held his drink up, watching the mint leaves float around and bump into miniature icebergs.

"Plato wrote that according to Greek mythology, humans were originally created with 4 arms, 4 legs and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate parts, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves. I think I was split into a lot more than just two halves," said Neal.

"You didn't wash the paint off."

"Nope."

And they lay on the floor, watching ice cubes melt.

* * *

They were slumped on the couch, shoulder to shoulder, enjoying the reassuring warmth of human contact. Neal relaxed against the agent's side, and Peter put his arm across Neal's shoulders and pulled him close.

It was a blissful state to be in, drunk and warm with a true friend. Whatever trust issues there were, this was still a deeply caring friendship. Being firmpl - firmly against Peter's side helped get rid of the wobbly.

Peter picked up the remote and punched buttons for a while. "You need to see this."

Neal groaned at the picture on screen. "Baseball?"

"Just the last few innings of this game. This one of the most - incredible last-minute turnarounds you'll ever see. Dare you not to be just a little in awe."

Neal struggled to keep his eyes open. When it was finally over, he stood up and went over to the bookshelf to find a certain special DVD.

"My turn," said Neal, slipping it into the player and skipping ahead a few chapters. "This is every bit as riveting as that game."

He sat back down and leaned against Peter's side again, missing that contact. Peter put his arm back around Neal's shoulders, and Neal tried not to melt.

The DVD was playing. "The pleochroism or lack thereof will help identify a specimen as uniaxial (singly refractive) or biaxial (doubly refractive) as seen in plane polarized light. The differential selective absorption present in both iolite and zoicite may cause initial confusion. While both iolite and unheated zoicite are trichroic, the more common treated zoicite will appear biaxial. However, the absorption spectra of these stones is readily distinguishable. Furthermore, a refractive index of 1.53-1.55 in iolite versus 1.685-1.707 in zoicite should aid in making a rapid distinction between the two materials. In the event that a refractometer is not available-"

"Stop!" protested Peter. "I give up. And how the hell is this _riveting_ to you? I can't even tell what _field_ they're talking about!"

Neal grinned. "I didn't say it was riveting to me, I said it was as riveting to me as baseball."

"You - if I wasn't so comfy right now, I'd punch you."

"Raincheck?" suggested Neal. This _was_ comfy. "And if you ever buy El a nice Tanzanite that turns out to be iolite, don't say I didn't try to educate you."

Neal didn't realize he'd started to doze off until Peter spoke again. His voice was quiet and open, unreserved.

"Neal...Yeah. I - was treated badly. And - there's trauma. But...it's superficial. I'd have been the same devastated wreck under house arrest. When those cuffs went on, my world imploded. That's my nightmare. That's - what I'm not sure I'm going back from."

Neal shifted and tried to wiggle his arm between Peter's back and the couch. It didn't really work, but it was the thought that counted, right?

"I know the feeling," said Neal. "It happened to me when I was three. And when I was eight, and eighteen, and when I was sentenced to Sing Sing. You do come back from it. A little warped, but more or less in one piece."

Peter twisted sideways and looked at him with one of the most vulnerable, sweetest expressions he'd ever seen. "You said - to give in and let myself be comforted."

And a minute later, Peter Burke, FBI agent, was in Neal's arms, his face pressed against Neal's shoulder.

So _this_ was what he'd been drinking all evening to work up the courage and lack of inhibition to do. Consciously or not.

Neal knew what it was like to be alone in a cell for a long time, scared and in pain. It was the fantasy of moments like this that kept one sane.

He just didn't know exactly how to react.

The only creatures he was used to holding and comforting were pets, kids, and occasionally, women. Not rigidly tough, always in-charge FBI agents.

He tried to formulate words, but no. That was the Neal way of doing things. This was a time for the Peter way of doing things. Neal relaxed and just held him and cared, cautiously stroking the back of his head, patting his shoulder.

It made Neal remember vividly the things he forgot, tuned out, and overlooked about being in prison. The things that made his stomach flip upside down.

The sound of metal cell doors slamming shut behind him.

Being on lockdown and listening to the violence of a cell extraction, yelling and screaming and slamming echoing down the hall while Neal wondered if he knew the prisoner or the guards involved, if someone he cared about was getting hurt. There were people on both sides he adored and every single cry took his breath away.

Being cavity searched. It'd been done with respect and professionalism, and was nowhere near the horror that the term implied. And it always left him wanting to crawl into a dark corner and vanish.

He held onto Peter with all his strength. One thing could ease the sting. Compassion. Humanity, friendship, caring...it all came back to the need for compassion when its existence was questioned. Peter had been denied that.

Neal hugged him, rested his chin on Peter's shoulder, found the left hand that wasn't wrapped around Neal's back, and stroked it. Rubbed the wrist where he'd been cuffed, and found two tiny white scars on the inside of his wrist. Almost invisible. Impossible to imagine the intensity of the pain those marks represented unless you'd experienced it.

Peter tensed when Neal's thumb paused over the scars, and Neal was going to let go when he realized Peter wasn't shrinking away, he was holding on even tighter.

Neal stroked the skin softly for a minute, then just wrapped his hand around Peter's wrist and held on. It hadn't been the most traumatic event in the agent's captivity, he'd made that plain enough.

Blinding pain and the constant threat of it didn't match the verbal cruelty he'd been met with every single time he saw another human being, or the complete humiliation and vulnerability of being strapped down naked and abandoned in a cell.

It didn't hold a candle to the fear of going to prison or being executed for a crime he didn't commit. Or, apparently, watching Neal walk out of the visitor's room and leave him behind.

Those tiny white spots were just the only thing Neal could access physically.

No. They weren't.

Peter would never tell his wife these things had happened to him. Neal was the only person who was going to hold him and comfort him and understand why.

His shoulder felt damp, and the agent's shoulders were...sort of twitching now and then. Peter was crying. Silently and without drama.

"You were cared about," said Neal softly. "Every minute. I know how abandoned and hated and worthless you were made to feel, but you were loved and worried about and believed in. Intensely."

"Yeah?"

Neal just pressed his face against the side of Peter's head and held him as tight as he could. The FBI agent in his arms might be crying, but he felt big warm and solid and even relaxed.

This wasn't the Peter Burke shivering in a wrecked car, looking aged and small and lost. This wasn't the Peter Burke in a suit who looked him in the eyes, cold and hard, and devastated him. This wasn't Peter broken and running scared.

This was Peter healing, and regaining the ability to trust and risk being vulnerable. It was a deliberate act of courage, letting Neal see him like this. It was abandoning all pretense of authority and putting himself in the hands of a friend, literally.

Neal relaxed, letting Peter's weight press him back on the couch, dizzy in a way that couldn't be entirely attributed to the alcohol.

Peter trusted him.

Not to refrain from breaking the law, a dance they might be performing until the end of time. But in a far deeper sense Neal hadn't even imagined him capable of.

It took his breath away. Well, that, and the fact that Peter was heavy. And warm. And Neal was squished, and sleepy. He closed his eyes, just for a minute.

Peter wasn't crying any longer, just lying there with his head on Neal's shoulder and an arm securely wrapped around his chest. Breathing...very steadily. Very evenly. As in sound asleep.

Neal tugged the throw off the back of the couch and over Peter, and tried to wiggle into a more comfortable position. Then he closed his eyes and let the world spin deliciously out of focus, dozing into a comfortable haze and much-needed sleep.


	21. Being Human

Neal woke up feeling like a very cuddly elephant was squashing him. He hated to give up the once-in-a-lifetime feeling of his hardass FBI handler sound asleep, head nestled against his shoulder and one arm tucked firm around his chest. It was sort of like snuggling with an attack dog. Cuddly Peter was adorable, and this was the best drunk night ever.

But - ow. He _had_ to move.

He wriggled out from under Peter, trying to disturb him as little as possible, and landed on the floor with an ungainly thunk.

Neal took a spare pillow off the bed, and extra blankets from the closet. Peter gave him an unfocused, confused look that melted when Neal coaxed him into lifting up so he could slip the pillow under his head. He carefully spread the blankets over the very drunk, very sleepy FBI agent, and gave him a fond pat.

Peter's gaze was no more focused, but it had gone definitively from confused to adoring. This was such an exceptional human being. Intelligent, tough, honest, joyful, and kind. And now, trusting at great risk.

Neal gave his shoulder a final squeeze. "Good night, Cujo. You're not alone. If you need me for anything, just yell. I'm right here."

And then he crawled into his deliciously large, soft bed and closed his eyes.

* * *

Oh, _OW_. Peter was still snoring when Neal awoke. It was fully light outside, and thank every deity throughout history it was a Saturday. His head hurt, he was dizzy, and his mouth was dry. He crept into the bathroom, then walked into the kitchen, careful not to jar himself with his steps.

Let's see Peter pickle-juice himself out of this one.

He forced himself to gulp down way too much water, Advil, vitamins, and the contents of an electrolyte packet. He made up a similar kit for Peter, downed a couple shots of NyQuil, and left everything by the couch before crawling back into bed and passing out again.

* * *

**PETER**

Neal was still sprawled out in bed, sound asleep. Peter turned the anklet around in his hand. He shouldn't leave the apartment without putting it back on.

Option one, wake a hung-over Neal for the express purpose of telling him, "Hey, thanks for holding me while I fell asleep sobbing in your arms last night, but wake the hell up so I can make sure you know you're still my prisoner." That idea lacked a certain sense of...sanity?

Option two, try to quietly sneak it back on him without disturbing him too much. His leg was sticking out enticingly from under the blanket...

That wouldn't at all be an unnerving way to wake up, finding someone had snuck into your bedroom and was trying to latch a tracker around your ankle. Remembering how dearly his nose had paid _last_ time he tried fiddling with Neal without permission cinched that one.

The textbook on Neal's nightstand caught his eye. Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Health Disorders. Now there was some light, casual reading. He snuck over and lifted it very quietly from the stand where it was open face down.

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.

PTSD. That was the section Neal was studying. And the highlights were all relevant to Peter. He didn't know whether to be touched or severely unsettled.

Touched. Neal had been helping him through this with subtle but considerable skill, patience, and immense understanding, considering how badly Peter had hurt him.

Peter set the book down softly. There was an option three, thinking like a normal human being and not the FBI agent handling a prisoner. Slip out, buy them breakfast, and bring it back to the apartment.

He walked softly out to the living room, rested the anklet on the table, and - no. Human being, not FBI agent. You know, friend, compassion, sensitivity? He slipped it back under the couch, and the key with it.

An interesting test. He might return with breakfast to find Neal gone. Highly doubtful he'd flee. What was going to be more interesting was seeing if he tried slip away for some off-leash sneakery or trick Peter into forgetting it was off.

* * *

**NEAL**

Neal was surprised to find Peter gone and the anklet still off when he woke up. He poured himself some orange juice, added a small splash of the remaining rum, started a pot of coffee, and went anklet-hunting.

He found them on the floor in roughly the same place they'd landed the night before. But...the key was close to the anklet. Too close.

So Peter had retrieved the thing, considered putting it on him, and decided against it. Interesting.

Peter the FBI agent was remorseless. He wouldn't have hesitated to shake Neal awake and order him to put the thing on. Then his kindhearted streak would have kicked in, and he'd have patted Neal's shoulder or made some off-kilter and horribly insensitive joke, or given him an apologetic glance and a case file. And then Neal would have smiled and decided this guy could wake him up and slap anklets on him any time he wanted.

Peter the vulnerable and trusting human being from last night might actually let his friend sleep in peace.

Maybe.

Or he could be waiting outside to tail Neal in his inevitable off-anklet adventures. Neal pulled up the GPS tracker he'd covertly installed in Peter's phone, expecting it to show him located behind a nearby bush like a garden gnome with a badge and a hangover.

The agent was a half-mile away, at a deli.

Wow.

Neal tossed the anklet in his hand, closed his eyes and smiled. Then he snapped the anklet on and put the key in the center of the table. Peter would be back; his car keys and handgun were in Neal's safe.

It was a tribute to how odd and complicated their relationship was: Peter would turn over his loaded service weapon to Neal without hesitation, yet the monumental act of trust was letting him sleep in without being monitored. Neal was grinning when he got into the shower.

* * *

**PETER**

Peter was starting to freak out in the way only Neal could induce. He'd been gone nearly two hours, thanks to traffic and lines and a mishap with an espresso stand.

Neal wouldn't run, not at this point. But he would slip off and do something stupid.

Then his phone buzzed, and his stomach sank. Neal had just used the tracking program he'd thought he'd hidden on Peter's phone to check his handler's whereabouts.

Damn it. If his sentimental carelessness put Neal in a cell - damn it. Giving him the opportunity to wreck his entire life wasn't kind, it was irresponsible and carried the cruelest possible consequences.

His responsibility to Neal, not just as a handler but as a friend, was to keep him under control first and worry about his feelings second.

You wake the guy up and make him put the anklet on, endure that painfully sad little waver in his expression, and poke him with sticks until the spark comes back into his eyes. Not exactly cruel and unusual. Not worth putting Neal's entire future on the line to avoid.

Peter finally made his way out of the deli and practically jumped in front of the first cab he saw. There were no traffic problems this time, and it didn't take long. But Neal had been alone for two and a half hours. Plenty of time to be far away and up to no good.

He paused outside the apartment with his hand on the door. _Please, Neal. Tell me you've been smart._

Neal was sitting at the table, sipping orange juice and trying to focus his eyes on the morning paper. He greeted Peter with a bleary-eyed, hung-over, but genuinely welcoming smile.

"Good morning," said Peter cautiously.

"There better not be pickle juice in there," said Neal.

"I tried. But all they had were these teeny little jars of pickles, I would've had to buy about twenty of 'em."

He set the bags down on the table. Sitting on it like a centerpiece were his gun, his car keys, and...the key to the anklet. Neal caught the direction of his gaze, extended his leg, and tugged up his silk pajama pants. He was wearing the anklet.

Their eyes locked. "Thank you, Neal."

"Thank you, Peter." Neal gave him a knowing grin. "So just how freaked out _were_ you?"

"Terrified," Peter admitted. The warm glow inside was making him smile like a little kid.

Pretending to check his messages, he pulled up Neal's tracking data and checked the time his anklet had been put back on. Less than two minutes after Neal had pinged his location. So Neal had checked to see if Peter was testing him, lurking outside. And when he'd seen that Peter had opted to trust him, he'd repaid that trust by putting the anklet back on.

Then he really did check his messages. El was in a meeting at the National Gallery, the neighbor kid had fed and walked Satchmo, and Marshal Tate wanted to meet his CI.

* * *

**NEAL**

"Agent Tate wants to meet you," said Peter.

Neal felt sick. These things had a history of turning out very badly for him. Not to mention the fact that this guy was law enforcement for law enforcement, and a psychologist.

Tate would either want to take custody of him, or tell Peter that Neal was corrupting him, or if he took a real look into their relationship, melt down in a horrified puddle of erroneous and unpleasant assumptions.

"What do you say we invite him to join us for brunch?" asked Peter.

"I'm feeling a little sick to my stomach," said Neal. "Think I'd rather just go home - oh, wait, this is my home. No stray FBI agents allowed."

"Hangover?"

"No."

Long silence.

"This one of the good guys. Truly."

Neal's head buzzed, and he was still nauseated. "I can't take this any more. I can see the guy helped you, and I like him for that. I love working with the FBI, and I hate being in prison. But if I'm asked to take one more round of this roller-coaster, I'm going to throw up. And then I'm going to go straight to Sing Sing and walk in the gate and close my eyes and wait for it to be over."

His hand shook when he picked up the bagel Peter set in front of him. "Those guys in the jail found the one thing you couldn't handle? Well, you've found the one thing I can't handle. I told you being literally tortured in prison was traumatic? It didn't hold a candle to what it felt like when you handed me that new anklet and left, or you telling me all I would ever be was a criminal, or hearing you talk to Jones about how awful it would be for him to be my handler."

He pressed his face in his hands. "You said things had to change. Then for the love of God please stop putting me through this, go enact your visions of Mister Burke Goes to Washington, and let me recover in a corner somewhere."

"Neal -" Peter sounded hurt and baffled. "What is it you think this guy's going to do you you?"

"Probably? Generously become my new handler so he can stick me undercover in every hell-pit of a prison he investigates. I know the system, right? And I'm already sentenced to be there. It'd be bloody perfect. And any time he gets mad at me, he can just leave me there a little longer than he needs to."

"No," said Peter firmly. "No, no, and no. As godawful as it was to hand you over to Siegel, as angry and screwed up as I was when I did it - did you think that he'd force you into any situation you weren't okay with?"

Neal looked down. "No. But bring that up one more time and I'll either punch you or throw up all over your shoes. No idea which."

And then he realized he wasn't kidding about the throwing up, doubled over, and fled for the bathroom. He vomited over and over again until his stomach and throat hurt so badly he wanted to cry out. The tears in his eyes this time weren't emotion, they were from physical pain and nausea.

He pulled the flush lever and buried his head in his arms, realizing he'd just made a decision. It was overwhelmingly sad, but it was the only direction that didn't make him throw up or cry.

"Neal? Are you all right? Neal?" Peter's voice gradually made it through, gentle and concerned. The voice that always steadied him and made him melt a little inside. "Remember you drowned recently. Should I be taking you to the doctor?"

Neal ran his fingers through his hair. As wrecked as he felt, his voice came out calm. It was the right decision. "I have an appointment with a lawyer to see if there's any way I can get released early. But if not, I need you to send me back to prison when you leave. I can't take another handler."

"Neal -"

"I don't dread it, and I don't have much time left. It's okay." He made himself meet Peter's gaze. It was soft and caring and horrified, and it instantly softened Neal's voice. "I mean that. It's what I want, and it's okay."

"Was - Siegel that bad?"

Neal shook his head. "Being handed over to him was. I put myself in _your_ hands. I'm not the FBI's pet felon on a leash, and I'm not some child you can toss around from house to house when you get bored with him, I'm n-" he closed his mouth and bit his tongue to keep from saying something about Hagen.

Hagen, who could erase all of this. Who could put the anger and betrayal right back on Peter's face in a heartbeat. He was sick and tired of having his life be a toy for other people to play with.

He almost screamed at Peter. "I'm a _human being!_"

* * *

**PETER**

Peter eyed the toilet, close to wanting to throw up himself. The damage he'd done to Neal, confident, smartass, trusting Neal Caffrey, was horrifying.

"When you're done with that chapter on PTSD, can I read it?" Peter asked, almost timidly.

It must have been the right thing to say, because Neal started laughing. It was genuine laughter, too.

Before he lost his nerve, Peter knelt down to Neal's eye level. "You're a wonderful human being. I respect you, I care about you."

And then he ran. Figuratively.

If this was what he was now, a man capable of inflicting that much damage, no wonder his wife was in Washington DC right now without him.

_I'm not some child you can toss around from house to house when you get bored with him?_ Where had that come from?

Throwing up was a pretty extreme reaction for Neal. And given the horror show that the longed-for reunion with his father had turned into, this would be exactly the time for childhood traumas to be surfacing.

And even more chilling, what was it Neal had stopped himself in mid-sentence from blurting out? What was it that had made Neal's eyes go flat in two seconds?

There was a knock on the door, and he invited Marshal Tate in.

* * *

**NEAL**

Fantastic. Peter invited the guy to his apartment. Without asking. Well, he could wait. Neal shaved, did his hair, and put on a suit.

_I'm not some child you can toss around from house to house when you get bored with him?_ Where had that come from?

The adventure of staying with different families had helped distract him from the reason he wasn't at home. Even at age eight, he'd known it was a million times better than spending six months in the foster system.

He looked at himself in the mirror and flashed a bright smile. Better. Less emotional wreck vomiting and begging to go back to prison, more dashing head-turner.

He introduced himself to Tate and sat down with a cheery expression plastered on his face.

Marshal Tate was a pretty endearing guy. Relaxed, non-threatening, and smart without brandishing it. He was bantering back and forth with Peter, who seemed genuinely at ease around the other agent.

Being able to set people at ease quickly was Week One at the Podunk Chevy and Tractor Dealership. Free shotgun with every pickup purchased, don't forget your complimentary ball cap.

Neal flashed his most brilliant smile. "So, you've met me and you're still here. What is it you want from me?"

Tate didn't seem threatened. "I admit, I wasn't expecting you to hate me on sight."

"Neal's had some bad experiences with other agents trying to get custody of him, and the last psychologist he saw spiked his drink and tried to mess with his head," said Peter.

Tate stared at Neal and glanced back and forth between them, wondering if he was being messed with. And clearly hoping he was.

"The agent who _shot_ me doesn't rate a mention?" asked Neal wryly. "Or how about the one who got me kidnapped, or the one who sent me undercover wearing an anklet that could have gotten me killed?"

"Well, that'd about do it," said Tate, wide-eyed despite himself. He shivered and glanced at Neal, curious and sympathetic. "How 'bout I promise to respect you as a human being, and you try not to hate me for things I didn't do?"

"We can give it a try," said Neal, relaxing a bit. "But the first time you shoot me, all bets are off."

"Don't forget the agent who framed you," Peter reminded him. He was getting as much of a kick out of the expressions of shock on Tate's face as Neal was.

Tate studied both of them for a long, silent minute. "Neal, you know any back-room doctor who can get your friend here on antidepressants without the FBI ever finding out?"

Neal raised his eyebrows. Now that was...not what he'd been expecting.

"Not some unlicensed mob doctor operating out of a vet's office," Tate clarified, grinning at Neal's shock. "It needs to be a legal prescription. But it's an irony of modern law enforcement that mental stability is such a primary requirement that some of the most frequently traumatized people in the country are afraid to seek treatment."

"I don't keep a list of licensed doctors with questionable ethics and poor record-keeping skills in my back pocket, but I can track one down," said Neal.

"Did I miss where someone asked me if I _wanted_ to take antidepressants?" asked Peter.

"Did I miss where you said you wanted to give this the best possible chance at destroying your life?" asked Tate.

Neal raised his eyebrows and grinned. "Wow. _Nice_ one. I'm starting to like you after all."

"And I'm starting to revise my prior positive opinion," muttered Peter, picking up his coffee and sulking.

Marshal looked directly at Neal. "The real reason I wanted to meet you? I spent four hours with Burke last evening, and it was blatantly obvious that he cares a great deal about you. I know what the fallout from trauma does to relationships, and I wanted to ask you to give this guy a chance. He's been through hell, and it shouldn't cost him his friendship with you."

Neal blinked, and Peter's eyes widened. That was...one bold move for a casual brunch guest. He'd been expecting Tate to horn in on his and Peter's relationship. It was like shrink catnip. But within five minutes?

"Exactly how much did Peter tell you about me?" asked Neal cautiously.

"So little that I could tell you were desperately important to him."

"And you just go around inviting yourself to people's homes every weekend to dispense unsolicited relationship advice? You're like some FBI Santa Claus bearing gifts absolutely nobody wants?"

Tate grinned with what looked like genuine good humor. "Exactly. I'm working on the sleigh, but reindeer are oddly hard to train."

Neal nodded slowly. "It's almost like they think it's weird when you ask them to fly."

"I just wouldn't want to spend all that time in court fighting trespassing charges," said Peter. His phone buzzed, and he checked it. "I need to go to the office."

"Do _I_ need to go to the office?" asked Neal hopefully.

"No. You don't," said Peter.

Neal sighed. "Fine. Have fun, Cujo."

"Okay, how long you planning on keeping up with this Cujo business?"

"I don't know. How long have I been enduring dog on a leash jokes?"

"Most of them _not_ from me," Peter reminded him.

"Uh-huh."

Peter shrugged. "Okay, Rover, see you later. I got a warrant to serve."

"Uh...you do realize nobody's named a dog Rover since 1965?"

"Okay, I see your point. Seeya, Spot."

Neal grinned and slapped at his departing handler's arm. He didn't want Peter leaving feeling guilty about the meltdown in the bathroom. Their eyes met for a split second.

_We're good._

Neal and Marshal Tate eyed each other with a certain amount of discomfort after Peter left. It was actually Tate's discomfort that won Neal over. It was nonthreatening and implied a lack of agenda.

Marshal gave him a gently questioning look. "I get the impression from investigating him, and meeting you, and talking to him, that the Peter Burke you knew before this happened was a very sweet man with a joyful personality."

Neal nodded. "Peter is, was - this is going to sound like I'm in love with him, but you'd look into his eyes and see the softest, most caring soul. That coming from one of the smartest, most competent, badass FBI agents in the country."

Tate smiled. "Neal, there's a misconception in this society that true love always has to be either familial or sexual."

"Tell me about it," said Neal sarcastically. He did have to give the guy a few points for understanding that, though.

"The thing is, the most fundamentally decent people tend to be the ones who take things like this the hardest."

Neal closed his eyes. "Listen. I know what PTSD is. I know what it does, and I know Peter has it. I am very familiar with people covering fear and pain with anger. I know solitary confinement and being humiliated and abused and restrained. I understand and I will support him and will always count him as a friend. Okay?"

Tate stood, well aware that he was being dismissed. "Okay," he said gently.

Neal opened his eyes, relenting. This agent was nice, and he was being mean to the guy. "Thank you for helping Peter. Very much. Justice means the world to him."

Tate smiled and tapped his knuckles on the table. "You don't want me here, I'll get out. But with all you've clearly been through, you need someone to care about you just as much as he does. Let him do that for you. His type needs to take care of others. It's more therapeutic for him to be able to do that than any amount of sympathy and understanding could ever be."


End file.
